The Unreachable
by Loquatorious
Summary: When the scars of Harry's trauma finally catch to him, in a way that he is not prepared for, Hermione takes it upon herself to help her best friend, and in the process changes the course of history.
1. As A Warning Sign

CHAPTER I: And I'll Use You As A Warning Sign

_Flashing bulbs, a thousand questions, the furore of public in panic, the blustering of a leader trying to retain order. Harry heard none of it. He was sure that looked dead on his feet, staring blankly outward, saying nothing. He could barely remember if he blinked in the last minute or so. Maybe that would explain the sting in his eyes that's drawing fresh tears that blur the chaos in the front of him. It all becomes shapes and noises to him. None of it seems real. Harry hoped none of it was real, because if it was - if this was real - then the previous few hours leading up to this moment were real as well._

_The shame of leading his friends into a death trap he should have seen coming. The horror of seeing his best friend hit square in the chest by a stray curse, watching her fall limp to the floor. The powerlessness of looking into the eyes of his godfather as he falls through the veil. The endless infinity of waiting for the body to hit the ground instead met with silence. The violation of having the evilest wizard in history tearing through his brain as if he owned it._

_But at least the public believes him now. He's no longer the route of all discontent in the world. Now he's a hero again, the saviour of the Wizarding world. Except, he wasn't. He wasn't the one that drove Voldemort back. He wasn't the one who apparated into the department of mysteries and saved his friends in the nick of time. He wasn't the one who knew what the hell he was doing. He didn't feel like much of a hero at the moment. He felt like a failure. Everyone who had been injured today, everyone who had risked their lives, it was because of him. They were his fault. Sirius was dead, and it was his fault. If anything, the public should hate him, more than ever, just like he does._

_Yet, here he was. He was the one who was being photographed, interrogated, applauded. None of the Order. None of his friends, who had been the bravest of them all. Not Sirius. None of the people who deserved it. It would be His beaten, bloody, ugly face in the paper the next day, ready for the rest of the world to see. He couldn't wait to see all of these emotions reappear in stunning detail for the entertainment of people who he didn't even know. He couldn't wait to be their dancing monkey again. That's all he would ever be, to everyone. He was the hero, in a play that just so happened to be his own life._

_A hand on his shoulder pulls him away from the scene. His legs move in their own, following whoever was leading him, one at a time. Harry assumes that it's Dumbledore, but in his state, it could be anyone. Maybe it was an Auror, escorting him to his cell. He did break into the Ministry after all. He did get someone killed. It would only be fair if they threw him into a small, dark, lonely cell and left him there. It was how he spent most of his childhood, anyway._

_They don't take him to a cell. Instead, Harry's the sensation of falling through a hurricane, landing unceremoniously on the floor of the headmaster's office. Finally, he is alone. No more cameras, no more loud noises, no more people._

_The scream that tears its way out of his throat is pointless, but it's the only thing he can think to do. It doesn't bring him any relief. His body still feels numb. He remains a failure and a danger to everyone around him. No matter how sore his eyes, no matter how empty his lungs, it doesn't bring his family back._

_He's still the Boy-Who-Lived._

* * *

Of all the days that Snape could have picked for Harry to serve detention, of course, he had to pick the day of the House Cup. It wouldn't be enough to have to force him to spend time with his least favourite teacher. No, Snape had to make sure that he stole away the time that was most precious to him. Of course, he would. Anything to help bring down Gryffindor. The few hours that Harry had been forced to spend stuck in the dungeons, knowing that this team were out on the Quidditch pitch, without him, were pure agony. The worst part was that Harry was sure Snape enjoyed every second of it.

Now, having been finally released, Harry was hurriedly making his way up from the dungeons, his heart heavy with anxiety. He slowed down as he passed the first set of windows, straining his ears to hear a sound from the pitch, but all was quiet ... it was over, then ...

He hesitated outside the crowded Great Hall, then ran up the marble staircase; whether Gryffindor had won or lost, the team usually celebrated or commiserated in their own common room.

'Quid agis?' he said tentatively to the Fat Lady, wondering what he would find inside.

Her expression was unreadable as she replied, 'You'll see.'

And she swung forwards.

A roar of celebration erupted from the hole behind her. Harry gaped as people began to scream at the sight of him; several hands pulled him into the room.

"We won!" yelled Ron, bounding into sight and brandishing the silver Cup at Harry. "We won! Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won! EVERYONE! LET'S HEAR IT FOR OUR CAPTAIN!"

The crowd of ecstatic Gryffindor are all cheering his name. Their cries were so loud, he didn't catch when someone called to him.

"Harry!"

He turned. His eyes met Ginny's beaming face, which appeared from out of the crowd and ran towards him. Her smile was bright and beautiful. Her hair, fiery red, was swaying in time with her stride. Her arms were flung out wide, ready to engulf him. __Her forehead is covered in blood, and she's screaming-__

Harry flinched.

No, there was no blood. What was he thinking? She was right there in front of him. She was clean, not a drop of blood on her. She was perfect. She was excited. __She's screaming and running towards him, the green, sickly light of the killing curse rushing past her ear, the mad cackle of-__

There it goes again. Harry glanced around him, trying to discern reality from… whatever was happening to him. The adolescent humidity from the party fogged his glasses and the faces in the crowd merged, the mini fireworks exploding into light in the corner of his eye. The sound of dozens of students chanting his name rings in his ears.

"Potter!"

"Potter!"

_"___Potter!"__

"Harry!"

_"___Potter!"__

"Harry, are you alright?"

_"___Potter!"__

_"___Harry Potter!"__

"Potter!"

_"___Potter!"__

_"___Potter!"__

_"___Potter! Is it true that-"__

__FLASH!__

_"___Potter! What is your position on the return of -"__

_"___Potter! Look this way please!-"__

__FLASH! FLASH!__

_"___Potter! What are your thoughts on the death of the mass-murderer Sirius Black?"__

_"___Did you know that-"__

__FLASH!__

_"___Will you be returning to Hogwarts next-"__

_"___Will you seeking legal action against-"__

_"___Potter!"__

_"___Potter!"__

__FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!__

__The reporters are swarming him. The bulbs are lighting up his bloody, broken face. His eyes are unfocused. Their faces are a shapeless mass of colour. Sirius is dead. He's alone. His friends are going to die.__

Harry inhales and draws little breath. His throat is closing up. He can't breathe. He tries to draw in as much oxygen as he can, and all that comes are shallow, shaking gasps. The pounding of blood through his head punctuates the suffocating noise. His legs feel loose beneath him.

"Harry?"

Ginny's voice distracted him momentarily. He glanced around and a few seconds later he saw the face it belonged to. She was no longer smiling. Instead, her face was contorted with something else. Her eyes, once sparkling, were now confused. She didn't understand his sudden turn in mood. None of them did, Harry realised. He just looks crazy to them. __That's all he'll ever be, to everyone. He was the hero, in a play that just so happened to be his own life. He's a freak to them. Just a freak! Freak!__

_"___FREAK!"__

_"___Get back in your cupboard, boy, and STAY THERE!"__

_"___I'd rather see you rot in that cupboard, freak!"__

Ginny's hand reaches hesitantly towards him.

_"___Maybe we should beat the freakiness out of you!"__

__A large, silhouetted hand reaches towards him.__

_"___Come here, boy!"__

He pushed the hand away from him as hard as he could, and behind it saw Ginny's shocked face. Harry froze, realising what he had done She was trying not to look offended, but Harry could see it clear as day. She was only trying to help. Why wouldn't he let her in? It was his fault. It was because of him. _They were his fault. Sirius was dead and it was his fault. The cacophony of the mob attacks him once again, this time with oppressive force, crushing him alongside his shame._

He had to run. He had to get away from there, away from the people. Away from whatever was happening to him. He had to run. He took a step back from Ginny, her heartbroken face ripping a hole in his chest. It's for her own good, he told himself. Ginny was a good person - one of the best. She didn't deserve to be stuck with someone like him. Someone who ruined everything he touched.

He turned around and ran as fast as he could, straight through the portrait hole. He never turned back. His only focus was pumping his arms and legs as fast as they could go. He dared not to stop. __He couldn't stop. They were right behind him. Throwing curses over just above his head. He had to keep going, he had to get his friends to safety. He had to-__

Harry gasped, bringing himself back to reality. His legs gave way, sinking against the stone wall, curling his robe around himself as he began to shiver. A drop of cold sweat trickled down his face. His breath still evaded him.

He was sure that looked like a wreck. Out of breath, trembling, rocking back and forth in a dark corner of the castle… alone.

Maybe someone would come back and take a picture, sell it to the paper, let the world see what had become of their precious hero. Perhaps then they would find out how he had nearly killed Draco. __How he had stared the young man in the eye and cast the curse that sliced him open. How he had stood and watched in stunned silence as the boy slowly bled out onto the bathroom floor. How he could only stand motionless as Snape found him, his eyes wide as he looked upon Harry's doing.__

Harry pulled himself out of yet another lapse of sanity, gritting his teeth and cursing his own mind for betraying him. What was happening to him? Was this Voldemort's doing? Why was he having these visions? Why was it so difficult to breathe all of a sudden? Why did every shadow send a spike of panic down his spine, as if each and every one of them were some new horror coming to get him? He felt ill. Worse than ill, he felt broken. He felt like he was going insane.

Maybe he was. Maybe they were right last year. Maybe he was really was crazy. Maybe they were right to doubt him. After all, how could this tiny, broken thing be the chosen one? How was he supposed to defeat Voldemort? He could barely stand up at the moment. He couldn't muster the effort to pick himself up off the floor, let alone fight the Dark Lord. How was he going to win?

Harry felt a small tear run across his face as he realised the truth. He wasn't going to win. Voldemort was going to kill him, and everyone he loved. The Wizarding world, who trusted him, swore by him, expected so much of him, was going to fall into the Dark Lord's hands, and the blame will be on _his_ shoulders.

With the barrier broken and no one else around to help him or care, Harry hung his head and began to sob.

* * *

Hermione twirled the unopened bottle of butterbeer in her hand, watching the hibiscus inside rotate and swirl hypnotically. Every so often she would glance up towards the portrait hole, expecting to see it open, disappointed when it didn't, then back to her bottle, distracting herself from the mounting anticipation.

Gryffindor had won the match, in a landslide victory, despite the absence of their captain. It had been a brilliant match - or at least to her, it had been brilliant. Hermione was never an enthusiast when it came to Quidditch, she only watched Harry's games because… well, because of Harry. This time was an exception, but since she and Ron had decided that maybe they could be a thing, she thought it appropriate to turn up, to support him and all. Still, it wasn't the same without Harry there. It just didn't seem as necessary if it wasn't him up in the sky, risking life and limb to secure a victory for the house. Still, Ron was there, and Ginny and they had flown exceptionally well.

She couldn't wait to see Harry's face when he found out.

Luckily, Hermione didn't have to wait long, because not a few seconds later, the common room erupted into applause, and her best friend was dragged into the room, his eyes full of surprise. She saw Ron bound up to him, shouting something - presumably about how they won - and Harry's face bloomed into a brilliant smile that she found herself mirroring.

The common room exploded into chanting, a celebration of Harry's leadership - well-deserved after months of rigorous training. The area was consumed with sound, from the repeated call of "Potter! Potter!" mixed with some of the twins' miniature fireworks, the place was alive, and the mood was ecstatic. Hermione turned herself to take it all in, glancing around to see the happy faces of Gryffindor house, a feeling shared by Ron and Seamus and Dean and Ginny - who was pushing past them to get to Harry. Hermione glanced back to her best friend and was taken aback by what met her.

The broad smile he was wearing only a moment before was gone. Instead, his eyes were wide, his face paling rapidly. His shoulders were stiff as if frozen by a body-lock spell, but his hands were shaking violently. His chest was heaving, and his mouth was hanging open - Hermione could tell his breathing was laboured and panicked. His eyes were moving erratically in their sockets, running along the line of faces in the crowd. He looked like he expected to be attacked at any second. He looked… terrified.

Her eyes widened as she put the pieces together.

Hermione stood, pushing past Ron, trying to get closer to Harry as Ginny began to reach towards him. Before her hand could make contact with his cheek, Harry swatted her away violently. Ginny recoiled in shock, and Hermione saw a fresh wave of horror fall over his face.

Before she could reach his side, he bolted from the room, sending the people behind him tumbling as he barged through. He was out of the portrait hole and sprinting down the hallway before anyone noticed he had even left. The furore of the party died down, replaced with confused murmurs as people as the gathered Gryffindors wondered why their Quidditch had suddenly fled the scene. It was only Hermione who had the initiative to chase after him.

She called after him, but he refused to stop. He simply kept on running until he turned a corner, out of sight. Hermione began to run, trying to match his speed, but with the head-start he had gained in those vital few seconds, she inevitably lost him.

As she turned the fifth, sixth, seventh corner, she swivelled on her heel, gazing down each end of the corridor. She sighed in frustration, knowing he could have gone down either one and that she didn't have time to explore both, not at the speed Harry was running. He could have been anywhere in the castle, and she needed to find him quickly, before someone who would want to cause him any more humiliation did.

She glanced around the space, noticing the row of portraits dozing lightly on the wall.

"Excuse me," she implored, waking the sleeping subject, an old man in a dressing gown and nightcap, "My friend came running past a few moments ago. Did you see where he went?"

"Do you know what time it is, young lady?" the old man groaned back. "Honestly, students these days. So disrespectful!"

"Please," she begged. "I need to find him! He's hurt, he's not feeling well! He needs to go to the medical ward!"

"So, it's an emergency?" the old man pondered. She nodded vigorously, her bushy hair flying in disparate directions. The old man straightened up in his seat. "Very well."

He shuffled around, leaning past the back of his chair towards a lady in a long, blue dress reading idly in the neighbouring frame.

"Guinevere, dear?"

The lady stirred, glancing at the old man.

"Yes, Baldric?"

"This young lady is looking for her friend," he explained. "Apparently he was around in these corridors not moments ago."

The lady - Guinevere, Hermione reminded herself - hummed.

"Young madam," Guinevere addressed her, "did he happen to have black hair upon his head and glasses upon his nose?"

"Yes!" Hermione exclaimed.

"I see. He went in that direction," she replied, pointing to Hermione's left. Guinevere grabbed a dove from a nearby branch and whispered to it. "Emmanuel will guide you to him."

She released the bird, and Hermione dutifully followed as it flapped from one painting to another, guiding her deeper into the castle. Eventually, the small dove rounded one last corner, resting on the rim of a painted fruit bowl. Beyond it, Hermione could make out a dimly lit hallway, illuminated only by the moonlight piercing through the windows.

Tucked away in the vertices, she saw Harry, and her heart broke.

His robes were tightly wrapped around him, diminishing him even further, making him appear so very small, so very fragile. His shoulder shook with quiet sobs; his face was hidden behind his arms as if trying to mask his suffering. It hardly worked, then again she saw it through her eyes. She had a talent for seeing through Harry's facade, whatever form it took.

She trod toward him carefully, as if approaching a spooked animal, making herself known. He pretended not to notice. She crouched down, placing her hand on his, stroking it softly.

"Harry…"

The sound of her voice coaxed him up from himself, his head raised and revealed his face her. It was clear that he had been crying heavily, his eyes were red, his cheeks covered with lines of moisture. His face was still pale, his eyes still wide, his breath coming only gasps.

"M-Mione…"

"Oh, Harry," she whispered, cupping his cheek. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head desperately.

"I-I don't know…" His bottom lipped trembled. "I don't know what's happening. I just… I can't breathe…"

"Shh," she called to him. "Shh. I want you to take deep breaths for me, Harry."

"I-I can't."

"Yes, you can. Just breathe. Copy me."

She began inhaling loudly, prompting him to copy. He started to draw in air, fighting against his sobs to slow down his respiration. After a few moments, encouraged by her constant guidance, he began to calm down.

"That's better," she smiled. "You're doing great. You're doing brilliantly. It's okay."

He tried smiling back.

"Thank you," he gasped. "I don't know what came over me."

"I think I do."

He glanced at her, his brow furrowed.

"I'm not entirely sure," Hermione explained, "but I think I know what happened to you. Harry, I think you just had a panic attack."

Harry blinked.

"I… You..." He gulped. "What's that? I-Is it a spell, or…?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Harry, a panic attack is something psychological."

His eyes widened.

"You think I'm going crazy?"

"No," she quickly assured him. "No, Harry. Never. A panic attack… it's something that can happen to anyone, especially if they're experiencing a lot of stress or anxiety."

He frowned.

"Have you e-ever had a panic attack, 'Mione?"

"No, I haven't," she admitted. "I have felt stressed before - Lord knows I have - but never enough to have an attack."

"I haven't felt anxious recently," Harry protested.

"Haven't you?"

Harry gazed at her, and she could see his resolve weakening.

"What with the Quidditch match, Snape's detention, the prophecy, Malfoy, the book," Hermione listed, "I'd be surprised if you weren't feeling stressed about it all. You've been working so hard recently. You've accomplished so much this year. I'm so proud of you, Harry. You might just be tired."

He shook his head.

"No… I don't think that's it…"

Hermione tilted her head.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"When I was in the common room, I…" He thought carefully about how to describe it. "I… saw things."

Hermione's heart flipped.

"Saw what?"

"It was… like a memory," he explained, "Or a nightmare. It was like I was experiencing it again."

Her hand gripped tightly around his.

"Harry, what were you seeing?"

"The press," he admitted hesitantly. "After the Ministry raid last year. Before Dumbledore took me away, there was a moment when the press were taking pictures of me, asking me questions about Voldemort. That was night Sirius died."

Hermione exhaled, her eyes shining.

"Harry," she said, placing a finger under his chin, drawing his head upward, so the two were staring each other in the eye. "I think you need to see Madam Pomfrey as soon as possible."

"What for?" he asked.

Hermione sobbed, clasping her arms around him, bringing him closer into her embrace.

"Hermione?"

"Oh, Harry," she lamented. "I'm so sorry."

"Hermione? What's wrong with me?"

She hugged him tighter to her chest, refusing to let him go. She counted the symptoms in her head. Every one of them pointed to the same thing, the same horrible, heartbreaking conclusion.

She didn't answer his question. Instead, she held him, as long as he needed her, as long as he wanted, until he found the strength to stand. All the while, she sat with him, wishing that he wasn't cursed with the life that had been thrust upon him, that Harry Potter had the chance to be a normal, care-free young man for once in his life. He was only sixteen-years-old, and already so much had been taken from him. His family, his security, his confidence, his mental health, possibly his future.

But not her.

That was the moment that Hermione Granger promised to herself that no matter what - no matter how bad it seemed; no matter how bleak the horizon; no matter how little odds stacked in their favour - she would stand by Harry Potter forever.

He would never lose __her__.

Never.

* * *

Harry went to Madam Pomfrey's the very next day. He described everything he had explained to Hermione the night before, in as much detail as he. He told her about his regular nightmares in fourth year and beyond, the flashbacks he had experienced in moments such as in the common room, his first panic attack, his feelings of self-loathing that had accumulated over the years.

He didn't have to wait very long for a diagnosis. It was only a few days later, during a similar talk with a mind healer from St Mungo's, when Harry finally had a name for it:

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. P.T.S.D. as it was commonly referred to.

Honestly, it made a lot of sense in retrospect. Facing constant, life-threatening danger was bound to leave somewhat of an impact, especially at a young age. Then Harry learned just how uncommon it actually was, how usually the only people who had PTSD were soldiers, war refugees, people who had been through extreme danger and come out the other side scarred for life. Suddenly Hermione's anxiety over the issue all the more appropriate.

He wasn't crazy, though, and with that securely in his mind, he felt he could stand a little taller, a burden slightly lifted from his shoulders.

When he found Hermione, anxiously waiting in the common room, and he finally confirmed her suspicions, he was surprised when she began to cry. She flung herself into his arms, holding him as if he were her only lifeline. He reciprocated, pulling her close, reassuring her that he was still breathing, just as she told him to.

They stayed that way, wrapped in each other's embrace, for a good long while. For that moment, it was only himself and her, alone, together. Harry realised as he rested his head in the cushion of her chocolate brown hair, that Ron was the luckiest man in the world, because Hermione…

Hermione was everything anyone could ever want in a friend… in a partner...

Ginny was normal, sure. Ginny could make Harry feel like any other person, and he loved that about her. Hermione, though… Hermione made him happy in who he was - or if not happy, at least glad. Hermione made him feel good to be Harry Potter, because if Harry Potter could be friends with this amazing witch, then how bad could he be?

Judging by the warm feeling in his chest, resting just beneath where her face was pressed against his chest, not bad at all.


	2. I Hope He Holds Your Hand

CHAPTER II: I Hope He Holds Your Hand

It had been two weeks since the last Quidditch game of the season had wrapped up, securing the House Cup for Gryffindor, yet another year in their winning streak. Two weeks since the party that had changed everything. Two weeks since Harry had his first panic attack. Two weeks since Hermione had promised to herself that she would never let him down, that she would be anything and everything he needed her to be.

So far, she had more than kept that promise.

Ever since then, Hermione had been hard at work, studying whatever material she could find about possible treatments, balms, therapies - anything that could provide Harry with some kind of relief from the effects of his trauma. And so, for the past couple of weeks, her sole focus had been pouring through the library, scanning each and every relevant tome for answers, along with ordering the newest theories in magical psychology. She had pestered Madam Pomfrey about ways she could assist in Harry's treatment outside of his sessions with a private mind healer.

If there was a piece of text in the castle even tangentially related to mental health, Hermione made it her mission to read it.

And that was where she found herself, on a bright afternoon in the Gryffindor common room, sitting with her knees beneath her on the sofa, leafing through a copy of 'The Advanced Guide for Potioneers: Mental Health and Recreation'. She was alone - Harry was out on the Quidditch pitch, teaching Ginny and the team tactics and manoeuvres they would need for the next year - but that barely bothered her. In fact, her isolation only made her more efficient. She preferred it that way. It was all for a good cause, after all. Ron, on the other hand...

"Hey, Hermione," the boy in question greeted her as he passed through the portrait hole.

"Good morning, Ronald."

He dropped heavily into the seat beside her on the sofa.

"What're you reading?"

"The elements needed to craft a draught of peace," she replied. Ron's face twisted into a picture of disgust.

"Potions? I didn't realise we had homework for potions."

"It's not homework," she explained irritably, bristling over his aversion to work. "It's for Harry."

Ron frowned.

"Right, of course, it is," he said, his shoulders stiff. "Should've guessed."

Hermione paused on the sentence she was reading, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

"Is there something wrong?" she offered. He shrugged.

"No, no of course not, 'Mione." She forced herself to resist cringing at his nickname for her. For some reason, hearing it from his lips felt incredibly uncomfortable. "I was thinking, the Hogsmeade weekend's coming up. I thought you and I could go together. Just the two of us."

Her eyes narrowed.

"What about Harry?"

Ron looked her at with a bemused expression.

"What __about __him?"

She sighed.

"He might like to come too," she replied.

"Well… he's got Ginny, hasn't he? They can go together," he reasoned. "So what do you say?"

Hermione frowned, biting the inside of her cheek, her eyebrows tilting upwards.

"I'm not sure, Ron," she said eventually, turning back to the passage in her book. Ron scoffed.

"Oh, come on," he urged her. "We've been meaning to go on a date recently, this could be nice." He scooted himself closer to her. "Just us, alone…" He reached his hand across to her knee. "You know…"

"Hmm," she hummed noncommittally. Her eyes stayed glued to the page. Ron, flummoxed at the lack of response, cleared his throat loudly, stretching his arms on the spine of the sofa. Once again, she failed to reciprocate his intentions.

"Hermione?" he called after several moments of silence.

"Hmm?" He looked up from her book, suddenly noticing his proximity. "Oh, sorry, I was miles away."

He forced a sigh.

"Yeah, I could tell."

"It doesn't mention anything about the lavender flower in here," she noted, her focus once drifting back to the book in her lap. "I wonder, if I included just a pinch, it might enhance the calming effects…"

"I just think it would be good for you get away from all this for a bit," Ron interjected, resting one hand on the page she was currently scanning.

"What do you mean?" she asked, trying to nudge his fingers away from the text.

"You've been studying far longer than usual, Hermione," he replied. "It's not good for you. You need to relax."

"I can't relax, not yet," she insisted. "I need to master this calming draught first."

"What for? Surely it can wait a few days."

"What if Harry needs it before then?"

"Oh, there we go again." He threw his hands up in annoyance. "It's always about Harry nowadays, isn't it?"

"What on Earth are you talking about?" she challenged, folding the book closed and letting it rest by her side.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Hermione," he shot back. "Either the two of you are off doing god-knows-what together, or you're too busy researching another __project __for him. Every time I try and offer to do something with you, there's always __one more thing __that Harry wants, which of course needs your full attention."

Hermione glared at him, her pout turning into an unpleasant frown.

"Don't tell me you're jealous, Ron-"

"Maybe I am!" He stood from the sofa. "My best friend is with my girlfriend more often than __I __am!"

"I'm not going to apologise for being with Harry," she growled.

"I'm not asking you to," he retorted. "I'm just saying that if this is gonna work between us, then we at least need to spend time together."

"And what do you suggest we do?" she asked rhetorically. "Because every time I offer something, you seem to reject it."

"No one wants to have a date in the library, Hermione."

"I wasn't suggesting the library!" she exclaimed. "It's not __my __fault that all you want to do with me is snog."

"Lavender and I snogged all the time when we were together."

Hermione's mouth fell open in disbelief. Ron paled, quickly realising his mistake.

"Oh, you saying I'm not up to snuff with __Lavender __now?"

"No!" he insisted, his palms raised. "No, that's not what I meant!"

"Then what are you trying to say?" she challenged in a serious tone. "That I'm not giving you enough as it is?"

"You're barely giving me anything!"

"I'm giving as much as I can!"

"Right, but it's still Harry that gets the most love and care."

"Because he needs my help, Ronald!"

"He's the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, Hermione! He can take care of himself!"

Hermione flew to her feet.

"You have __no idea __what he's going through right now, do you?" she glared at Ron, her teeth bared. He scoffed.

"Oh, I can imagine," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Poor Harry. It's such a _tragedy _being the chosen one and all. How can he _live_ with the fact that he's rich and famous and-"

"Hermione!" The winded, urgent voice of Neville interrupted their argument. She turned, spotting him as barrelled into the common room, huffing and gasping for air. "Hermione!"

"Neville? What's wrong?"

"It's Harry!" he explained. Her eyes widened. "He just collapsed in the middle of the pitch. He… he told me to find you. He won't speak to anyone else… he's not speaking at all."

Her heart began pounding in her chest as she realised what had happened. Immediately, all motivation to continue arguing with Ron fell away, replaced with a sudden need to find her best friend.

She stared Neville in the eye.

"Take me to him."

He nodded, gesturing to the portrait hole. Hermione nodded, telling him to lead and she would follow. Before she had reached the opposite side of the room, Ron called to her.

"Hermione…"

She turned, allowing him a glimpse determined, steely look. Whatever he was about to say, he faltered, realised that no matter what came out of his mouth, it wouldn't change her mind. She was going, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. He sighed, his jaw tightened, and he stalked past her, back towards the boy dormitories. Before he could entirely disappear, she gave him one last look that told him one thing: '_We need to talk about this._'

He jerked his head, gesturing for her to leave already. And she did, striding out of the common room without hesitation. She did not look back.

* * *

Hermione didn't slow down until she reached the pitch, running the rest of the way down the hill outside of the castle walls, so fast that even Neville had trouble keeping up with her. By the time they reached the entrance to the stadium, she had allowed Neville to catch up, letting him lead her into the boys changing room, where a small crowd of people were gathered around one corner. The sound of ragged, distressed breathing persisted just above their concerned murmurs. Hermione recognised it immediately.

"Harry!" she gasped. She stepped forward, ushering people aside. "Let me through! Give him some space!"

As she pushed past Dean Thomas, Harry was revealed to her, curled up in a ball in the very edge of the tent, rocking back and forth, his skin pale and laden with sweat. Ginny was on her knees beside him, her hands on his arms, trying to pry them away from his face. His eyes met Hermione's face, and he cried.

"'Mione," he called to her in a small, raspy voice. "I can't breathe."

She crouched to his level, enveloping him in a warm, comforting hug. Ginny reluctantly moved aside.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," she whispered, stroking his hair. "It's okay. It'll be over soon. It's just a panic attack, that's all. No one's going to hurt you. I'm here now."

His breathing began to level out, and his tension in his body began to unwind, but he still clung to her like a lifeline, his grip tight, matching her's. She whirled around, glaring at the gathered Quidditch team, forcing them to take several steps back with only a look. One by one, the students departed, leaving only Neville on a nearby bench, and Ginny, who was rubbing Harry's back in small circles.

"What do we do?" he asked.

"Get Madam Pomfrey," she ordered. "Tell her we'll need a calming draught."

Nevile, clearly tired and in no fit state to run, called through to the outside of the tent.

"Dean!"

"On it!" Dean's voice replied. The sound of a broom taking off from the ground followed and Hermione exhaled, knowing that help was on the way. She turned back to Harry, gathering him as she slowly sat beside him on the grass floor.

She glanced up, noticing Ginny was still present.

"Is he going to be alright?" the younger girl asked, concern evident on her face.

"He will be," Hermione replied plainly. "Don't worry, I'll look after him."

A spark of something dangerous flicked across Ginny's face. She stared into Hermione's eyes, who stared right back, challenging her to try, just _try_ and get her to leave. Eventually, after several moments of staring each other down, Ginny relented, storming out of the tent. Hermione couldn't help the small smile that appeared on her lips.

"Harry, what happened?" she asked softly, continuing Ginny's ministrations. She noticed that he responded far more positively to her touch than when the youngest Weasley had done so, shivering in her arms in a way akin to a house cat.

"I don't know," he replied weakly, shaking his head, his eyes squeezed shut. "I was just flying around in the air, I was fine, really. It just sort of happened. I'm really sorry. I should've-"

"Sometimes these things just happen, Harry. It's not your fault." She placed a light kiss on his temple. "Don't you dare blame yourself for this. You're doing so well. Madam Pomfrey will be here in a minute with some calming draught. You'll be alright in no time."

The pair sat together, taking a moment to revel in the peace and quiet of the empty changing room. Eventually, Harry's breathing began to even out, settling into a steady rhythm. His body was still tense, and his trembling had yet to quell, but for that moment, Hermione was immensely proud of how well he was handling himself.

"'Mione." His voice brought her out of thought. "Can you stay with me? Please? Just for a little bit? Until Madam Pomfrey arrives?"

She smiled nodding.

"I'm not going anywhere, Harry," she replied, holding tighter against her chest. "I promise. I'll be right here with you, for as long as you need me."

"I'm sorry you have to do this, 'Mione. I-I'm trying…"

She shuffled her grip, placing her hands on the side of his face, so he was forced to look into her eyes.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she said resolutely. "This is __my __choice. I want to help you. Never apologise for letting me help you."

"I… I know," he whispered, "but I've seen how much work you've been doing. How much you've been helping me. I know you'd rather be with Ron, and I…"

"Harry," she said, weaving her fingers through his hair, "there's nothing I'd rather do than help my best friend." And she gave him a broad, beaming smile that he attempted to mirror.

"…You're my best friend, too, Hermione," he admitted, his eyes shining in the dim light. She nodded, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a hug.

"Thank you, Harry. That means a lot to me."

"I'm sorry I can't give you much of anything back," he chuckled.

"You do," she assured him. "You being my friend, that's more than enough."

He seemed ready to say otherwise, to protest the very idea that something so meagre as his companionship could mean so much to anyone, but for some reason, it never came. For whatever reason, he decided against, instead preferring to sit with her, basking in her embrace. Perhaps he thought it pointless to argue, maybe he thought it would annoy her to carry on stubbornly denying his own self-worth, or probably - and Hermione hoped as was the case - she was finally getting through to him.

Regardless, she was glad when the entrance to the tent opened a few minutes later, and Madam Pomfrey walked through, wielding a Draught of Peace in one hand and a bouquet of lavender in the other. The effects of the light blue potion were immediate. His shaking stopped, his face regained its pinkish colour, his breath slowed to a manageable state. The difference was night and day. Gone was the small, vulnerable boy that she had held and comforted for the past few minutes, replaced with good, old Harry, her best friend.

Despite no longer needing it, which Madam Pomfrey verified as she left, it was a while before the two disengaged from each other's embrace.

* * *

Ron Weasley found himself alone on the loveseat of the Gryffindor common room later that evening, stewing in the irritation that plagued him since his argument with Hermione. He shouldn't have felt as anxious as he did, he and Hermione regularly quarrelled, and every time they eventually got over it. Surely this is was just going to be one of those times. Except, it certainly didn't feel like it. Something told him that this time it was different, that this time the two had crossed a line.

The fact that she had chosen to go to Harry's side after all was said and done certainly stung. After all that she had done for Harry, all the work she had indulged in on his behalf, all but ignoring Ron for the past couple of weeks, he had thought that it would have been enough. Ron had assumed that if he merely offered, if he confronted about it, then she would relent, see the error of her ways and run straight back to him. But she didn't.

Instead, she left him, alone, without a moment's hesitation. She had chosen Harry over _him_, her boyfriend - in all but name. It was but one more thing that Harry had that Ron didn't, and yet he still demanded more, deserved more, apparently.

His thought was interrupted by the sound of the portrait hole opening, and the sight of Hermione walking through into the common room. The moment she noticed him, she paused, standing in the light of the fireplace. Neither spoke for several agonising seconds, merely staring at each other in an awkward stand-off.

"Has it always been him?" he asked from across the room, eliciting a glare from her. Her jaw clenched, and her hands tightened into fists.

"Ron, if you're asking me to pick between the two of you, that's not going to happen," she replied coolly. "This isn't about which of you I like most, this about Harry needing my help."

He inhaled, calming himself. He had tried getting angry before it didn't work. She at least deserved to explain herself, he reasoned.

"What's happening to him?"

Her face took on a weary, forlorn expression as she stared into the fireplace, watching the embers dissolve into flame.

"He's not well, Ron," she explained. "He has something called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." Met with his confused silence, she continued. "It's when a person experiences something very traumatic or distressing in their life, and it affects their mental health. He's not going insane if that's what you're thinking. He's still the same Harry that we know, but if it's not treated soon… then he's going to be traumatised for the rest of his life. Who knows what could happen to him."

"Is that what you've been doing?" he asked, his mood morphing from agitation to concern. "Helping him get it treated?"

She scoffed sadly.

"I'm nowhere near qualified for that. I've been trying to find ways to help with his panic attacks."

"His what?"

"Sometimes, Harry gets these moments when he panics, for no reason," she elaborated, taking a seat on the sofa. "It's never intentional, it just happens. He starts struggling to breathe, his body loses function, he even has flashbacks of the worst moments of his life." She glanced to him, her frown deepening, her eyes glistening. "It's hell, Ron. It's like he's trapped inside his own worst nightmare."

The image of Harry in pain brought Ron crashing back down to Earth.

"Merlin…" he sighed, suddenly feeling all the more guilty for pestering her. A million more question fired through his head, but he only verbalised the prevailing one. "Why hasn't he told me any of this?"

"Because he's embarrassed," she simply said. "It's an incredibly personal thing, Ron. He thinks it's some form of weakness, that it's somehow his own fault."

Ron sighed in frustration.

"How could that _possibly_ be his fault?"

"I don't know, but he'll find a way," she answered sardonically. "He's not in a good place at the moment. I think all the pressure in his life is starting to catch up to him."

"Is there anything we can do?" he asked, his head hung low.

"We can help him when he needs us," she replied, glancing at him in a way that communicated her discontent. "Apart from that, I don't know. This isn't something we can fix. If Harry's ever going to get better, it needs to come from him."

Ron stood meekly from the armchair, moving to rest on the opposite side of the sofa.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said quietly. "I never realised…"

"It's okay," she replied tiredly. "I haven't been entirely open with you. Which is why we needed to have this conversation. Ron, I know you care about me a lot, and I care about you too. I just don't think we're right for each other. If you want someone who will snog you like Lavender, then you're better off trying to get back with her. I know you want a girl who will devote all their time to you, who will cater to you and your life and love you in exactly the way you need to be loved… but I'm not that girl, Ron, and I never will be. And that's not entirely your fault.

"I kept this going, just like you did. And partly because I was vain. I liked having someone who _desired_ me, who could love me, even. I wanted to feel like Lavender or Parvati, or any one of the other girls in our year who were beautiful and popular and... Except, I realise now that that's not how a relationship works. I understand now that I wasn't giving anything that you couldn't get from somebody else. I think it's time we stopped treated like anything other than it actually is: a crush.

"We could carry on saying to ourselves that this is something deeper, but at the end of the day, we're teenagers, and this was always going to end in disaster. And that's okay, that's what teenagers do. The problem is you're also my friend, Ron, and I don't want to hurt you. That's the last thing I want to do. I'd rather love you as a friend than pacify you as your crush."

"What if I feel differently?" he replied, shuffling closer to her and taking her hand in his. "What if this __could __be something more?"

Hermione replied with a sad smile, stroking his digits with her thumb.

"Ron, how many times have we argued over the _smallest_ of things?"

"Couples do that," Ron argued.

She shook her head.

"Couples __apologise__. When have we ever apologised to each other and meant it?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came to mind. He quickly skimmed through the past six years of his life, looking for every time they had quarrelled over their time together. Ron's heart fell as he slowly realised she was telling the truth. Six years, and not a single apology that he could remember, not a single time when they had made up after an argument. His face fell as he saw their perfect match for what it really was: two hormonal teenagers at each other's throats. Hermione, however, was surprisingly composed.

"Ron," she called to him, a small but beautiful smile on her lips, "You deserve someone who will love you for who __you __are, something who won't pester you about homework or get annoyed with all your foibles. Someone who can see you for you. Trust me, Ron, you can do far better than me."

"Somehow I doubt that," he laughed humourlessly. His hand reached to the back of his neck and rubbed, trying to relieve the tension that he found there. "It's hard to admit, but I can see where you're coming from. I guess I was so caught up in wanting you that I never stopped to think why."

"And why did you?"

He smiled at her, tilting his head in a way that asked her, '_Why the hell wouldn't I?_'

"Because you're brilliant," he replied, "and you're smart, and you're quite pretty as well. That and… no, I can't say it."

"Please," she implored. Ron glanced at her, waiting expectantly, and he sighed, shaking his head.

"I was... jealous." He cringed. "I may not be as smart as you are, but I could see what was right in front of me. I saw how much you and Harry __adored __each other, how well the two of you worked together. Hell, everyone, we've ever met thought you two were together already. It always left me feeling like the extra one. Harry was brave, powerful, handsome, rich, the bloody _chosen one_ of all people, and you were the smart, decisive, reliable one. Me? I was just your friend. I guess I just didn't want to be left behind. That, and - I feel like such a git for this but - I wanted something that Harry couldn't have. I wasn't wealthy, or smart or famous, but I thought if I had you, then maybe I would be happy. I know, I know, it's awful, but that's just what I thought at the time. I'm sorry."

Her face was unreadable.

"Better to have it out now than ten years into marriage," she shrugged.

"Merlin, don't even __talk __to me about marriage," he laughed, palming his forehead. She chuckled lightly, relieved that the mood had even slightly changed for the better. "I guess this is it, then."

"It is," she sighed.

"Thank you for trying," he replied.

"Thank you for exactly the same."

The two stared at each for a moment, before they reached forward and embraced each other, awarding one last indulgence before their relationship came to an end.

"I'll always care for you, Hermione," he whispered, patting her on the back. He felt her nod into his shoulder.

"Feeling's mutual, Ron."

The two leaned back, gazing at each other as if finally seeing themselves for the first time, and smiled. It felt as if a crushing weight had been taken off of their shoulders, replaced with a sense of deliverance.

"What about Harry?" Ron eventually asked after a long while staring into the dwindling fire. Hermione didn't immediately respond, but her determined expression told him everything he needed to know.

"Harry needs me, Ron. He needs you, too. I'm staying by him, no matter what. Take that how you will."

Ron shrugged.

"Sounds about right. Just… Don't you two forget about me." He grinned, patting her shoulder fondly. She smirked in return.

"How could we? I'm sorry I was an awful girlfriend."

"Nah, you were fine," he waved her off. "Could have done with less nagging, but, you know, you get what you signed up for. Just make sure you're happy, alright?"

"I will."

"__Promise __me," he repeated, giving her a pointed look, "because you often forget about that sort of thing."

Hermione glanced at him, feeling a warm glow in her chest as she realised just how pleasant it felt to be valued by someone she cared about. She realised that Harry must have had that exact same feeling, in the tent earlier that day.

"I promise."

Ron nodded, knowing that there was not much else he could do.

"And, do me a favour," he added. "Let Harry know I care."

"He knows, Ron," she assured him, gazing into the eyes of her friend, relieved that she had made the right choice. "He knows."


	3. My Name is Prince

CHAPTER III: Upon Pillars Of Salt

Surprisingly enough, contrary to what Hermione had dreaded, breaking up with Ron had only strengthened her friendship with him, rather than weaken it. Not that she minded, per se. Compared to the horror stories she had heard about couples breaking up and never wanting to see each other again, keeping Ron as her friend was the much better alternative. They still argued, often, but nowadays they were far more amicable, as opposed to the tension that had permeated their interactions for so long. Now, Ron was far more relaxed about speaking his mind, no longer worried about his image or what she would think of him. He no longer felt the need to impress her, and as such, the real Ronald Weasley began to shine through. Their rapport slowly morphed from clipped tones and jealous remarks to silly jibes and outlandish mockery, akin to how siblings would make fun of each other.

Hermione could definitively say that she preferred this Ron more than the one that had obsessed over her for so long. The stark contrast between the two sides of her friend made her wonder why she had put up with the former for so long. She could honestly say, from a more detached point of view, that he was far more attractive now than he ever was back when they were sort-of dating. It almost made her wonder if there could be something between them.

And then Hermione would remember very clearly why he was like this, the boundaries the two had put in place that facilitated this change, and she reckoned that it was for the best that they stayed that way.

Of course, it wasn't long before Ron had moved on to someone else. At first, he had tried fixing his relationship with Lavender, to which he received an adamant refusal, one which manifested in a suspicious hand-shaped mark on his cheek. She and Harry very much enjoyed the image of a humiliated Ron Weasley, much to the chagrin of their friend. Soon, though, the youngest male Weasley had declared, not three weeks after he and Hermione had broken up, that he was now seeing someone new.

Frustratingly, however, he was mature enough about it that he didn't say who it was.

"Are you sure it's not Pansy Parkinson?" Harry offered one evening, as he leafed through his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook for the hundredth time. Ron merely rolled his eyes.

"Why on Earth would it be her?" he cringed.

"I'm just saying, mate, the longer you keep it a secret, the crazier the theories are going to get. So far we've had people saying it's Susan Bones-"

"I've barely even spoken to her once!"

"Daphne Greengrass-"

"A Slytherin?"

Harry merely shrugged.

"Even Romilda Vane's on the list."

"Romilda Vane? Come off it!"

"Why not? After all, you did swear your undying love to her, remember?" Harry smirked devilishly.

"Yeah, when I was drugged to eyeballs on love potions," Ron pointed out.

"Which only happened because you have zero self-control when it comes to chocolate," Hermione added from her place leaning on the sofa, her head resting on Harry's legs as she read yet another weighty volume on psychotherapy.

"The way I see it, if _I_ hadn't eaten those chocolates, it would have been Harry who'd have embarrassed himself." Ron puffed out his chest. "If anything, _I _made the ultimate sacrifice to protect Harry's honour."

"By eating my chocolate that you didn't even know had love potions in them," Harry countered.

"Yes, and I'll be accepting a 'thank-you' any day now."

Harry scoffed.

"Yeah, right."

Ron shook his head, sighed irritably.

"Honestly, I keep one secret, and everyone thinks they deserve to know what it is," Ron grumbled. "Is this what it's like to be famous?"

"Mmhm," Harry hummed, "Except usually, people publish their outlandish theories as news articles."

"Wow," Ron sounded, "Being famous sucks."

Harry gave Ron a long, tired stare.

"Yes, I bet it does."

No matter how many times they asked, Ron refused to give up the name of his mystery lover. All he ever said was that they knew her, and she was, as he liked to describe wistfully, unlike anyone he had ever met before. When Harry had offered that the reason for that was because she was fictional, the look on Ron's face had him and Hermione in stitches for the rest of the evening.

It became a bit of a running joke between Harry and Hermione to guess the most ridiculous answer to whom Ron's girlfriend actually was. Some of their highlights were Rita Skeeter, Winky, Trelawney and Professor McGonagall. After all, Ron had often been at odds with his transfiguration teacher and, as Hermione often reminded him, he always said that couples regularly argued. Ron's only response was the lifting of one finger.

Besides making jokes at Ron's expense, her relationship with Harry had blossomed in other ways. Ever since she and Ron had broken up, it allowed her far more time to be with her best friend, offering him support or helping him with his schoolwork. It came to a point when Harry spent more time with her than anyone else he knew since they shared the majority of classes together and they happened to live in the same tower the rest of the time. Not that she was complaining. It meant that, whenever he did need her help, she was always nearby to assist him.

It also meant that she actively missed him when he wasn't around. She had always felt Harry's absence before, such as on holidays, or when he disappeared off to Dumbledore's private lessons, but now whenever he disappeared from her life, even for a few hours, the feeling that she had misplaced something was all the more powerful. She reasoned that it was because, at any moment, Harry could come down with another panic attack, and her not being there to help him made him vulnerable. However, the more she spent time with him, the more she listened to what he had to say, about how he felt, the more she realised that it wasn't entirely true. Hermione always worried about him - it was in her nature - but it wasn't just anxiety that drove her to miss him. It was longing.

She missed his smile, his laugh, his way of teasing her that made her feel precious, the way he trusted her, and she, in turn, trusted him. He made her feel so secure, not only in her safety but in herself. He made her feel like Hermione Granger meant something.

Of course, that didn't mean they never disagreed, or even argued. Of course they did, they weren't perfect by any stretch. The textbook, for one thing. For some reason, whenever Hermione thought of the damned book, she felt a deep-seated anger flare from within her. It wasn't just that it basically allowed Harry the easy path to a perfect score, it was also what else that book contained.

The _Sectumsempra_ curse, for one. From what Harry had described of the spell, Hermione assumed that it had been copied down from one of the Dark Arts tomes in the forbidden section of the library. However, when she had gone to check, filtering through each and every book on the subject, she couldn't find the spell anywhere. Even when Hermione had asked Madam Pince, or Professor Flitwick, or even Professor McGonagal, they all told her the same thing: the spell Hermione had asked for simply did not exist. Except, she reminded herself, inside that textbook.

The only logical assumption she could make, a theory she had quickly told Harry himself, was that the Half-Blood Prince, whoever they were, had created the spell themselves. The understanding - nay, mastery - of the dark arts required to do such a thing revolted her, to the point where she was determined to find out who the Prince was, just to see whether they were as ghastly as she imagined.

It was during that following trip to the library, scouring through the records for any clue as to the Prince's real name, she found something. Something big. Something which she quickly brought to Harry's attention the following early Saturday morning.

"I have a lead," she announced, to an audience of one. Harry stared gormlessly at her, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Pardon?"

Hermione scoffed, landing beside him on the common room sofa.

"On the identity of the Half-Blood Prince."

Immediately she saw his expression switch from weary disinterest to active irritation.

"This again? Hermione, please can you let it rest?"

"No, not a chance!" she protested. "Surely you must be at least curious."

Harry shook his head.

"Not at all. I only ever liked that book for the potions tips, anyway."

Hermione scoffed.

"Potions _cheats_, more like."

He rounded on her, showing her a pleading frown.

"Look, if it helps me get the O, then that's all that matters."

"It's more valuable to know _how_ you got the O though," she argued, "otherwise, you're not _learning_ anything."

"It's not like I was inventing anything that I couldn't already do," Harry pointed out. "Is crushing rather than cutting so revolutionary?"

"Then why aren't your potions grades as high as they used to be?"

To her immense satisfaction, he stumbled on his next few words, his lips tightening in some pale imitation of McGonagal.

"Because… because the Prince is just better at potions than I am, alright?"

"And they always will be if you continue to rely on THEIR work!"

"It's not like I'm going to be a potioneer when I leave Hogwarts am I, Hermione?"

"No, but Aurors need to know how to make all sorts of potions - healing, pepper-up, light-foot, ember of heart, lungbarrow—"

"I can just buy them if I need them—"

"And what if you're by yourself with nowhere to buy them from?"

"Then…" He glanced around the room, anywhere but her penetrating stare. Eventually, realising he had painted himself into a corner, he admitted defeat. "Look, okay, okay! You've got me. I shouldn't rely solely on the Prince, but you can't say me getting a better grade is a bad thing."

"I'd rather you earned it," Hermione replied, which only served to further crush his mood. Realising how they had gotten off-topic, Hermione cupped his cheek. "Look, Harry, I'm not saying this to annoy you. I never want to annoy you or make you hate me."

"Hey…" he suddenly pulled himself together, rubbing her arm in return. "Hey, I'm sorry. I could never hate you, Hermione. You're my best friend, remember." He sent her a quick smile. "It's just that I don't need you reminding me of my shortcomings whenever I sit down. It makes me feel… inadequate. Especially when it's coming from you."

"Because I'm bossy, I know," she dismissed, to which Harry suddenly looked very indignant.

"No, because you're amazingly clever, 'Mione," he said with such conviction that she was momentarily stunned. "It just reminds me of how little I actually know. Especially considering what everyone's expecting me to do…"

"Harry, admitting to not knowing something is a good thing. Something I don't do nearly as much as I should."

"That's because there's so little that you don't know," he pointed out. Hermione blushed despite herself.

"Aww, Harry, I…" Her eyes widened. "Wait a minute, I see what you're doing."

Harry suddenly looked flustered.

"Doing? Wh-What am I doing?"

She grinned.

"You're trying to distract me, showering me with compliments, so I forget about the Prince."

For a moment, there was a look on his face that told her that was anything but the truth, but it just as quickly evaporated.

"…No, I'm not," he replied as innocently as he could.

"Yes, you are."

"Nope."

"Harry."

He let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Well, it was worth a shot. Go on. Tell me what you've found."

Hermione couldn't help but smile, scooting across the seat so that they were side by side.

She pulled an ancient piece of newsprint out of her pocket and slammed it down on the table in front of Harry. 'Look at that! Look at the picture!'

Harry picked up the crumbling piece of paper and stared at the moving photograph, yellowed with age. The picture showed a skinny girl of around fifteen. She was not pretty; she looked simultaneously cross and sullen, with heavy brows and a long, pallid face. Under-neath the photograph was the caption: Eileen Prince, Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team.

"So?" said Harry, scanning the short news item to which the picture belonged.

"Her name was Eileen Prince. Prince, Harry."

They looked at each other, and Harry realised what Hermione was trying to say.

"Seriously? You think she's the one?"

"Well, why not? Harry, there aren't any real princes in the wizarding world! It's either a nickname, a made-up title somebody's given themselves, or it could be their actual name, couldn't it? No, listen! If, say, her father was a wizard whose surname was "Prince", and her mother was a Muggle, then that would make her a 'half-blood Prince'!"

"Even I think that's a bit far fetched, Hermione…"

"But it would! Maybe she was proud of being half a Prince!"

"Listen, Hermione, I can tell it's not a girl. I can just tell."

"You just don't want to believe that a woman could be clever enough to be the Half-blood Prince."

"Hermione…" He seemed genuinely put-out. "Of course, I don't think that. In fact, there's a certain young woman who happens to be the smartest person I know."

Hermione smirked, deciding to act coy.

"Do I know her?" she asked, glancing towards the far corner of the room, her nose upturned.

"You just might…" he grinned back. "Still, you may be reading too far into it. This is a student's book, after all. I doubt they put too much thought into their own nickname."

"Blood status isn't something Wizards announce lightly, Harry," she reminded him. "It may sound a bit over the top to us - we grew up with Muggles after all - but here it's something very serious, especially back when the Prince owned the book. That was just before Voldemort's rise."

"You could be right…" Harry digested all that she had said, his eyes squinting in deep thought. "Still, I'm not convinced it's a 'she'. Call it intuition."

"Call it male chauvinism."

"Male what now?"

She lightly hit his arm.

"Prat."

"Hey, we might both be right," he proposed, peaking her attention. "Perhaps there's another Prince out there, a relative, maybe. Did Eileen ever have children?"

Hermione pondered it for a while, wondering if there was a registry for past students and their kin, or perhaps an article about the Prince family she could consult. Either way, it meant yet another long day in the library. For Harry, though, it was worth it.

"I'll have to check." The ticking of an old grandfather clock in the corner drew her attention. "Oh, it's nearly ten o'clock."

Nearly time for Harry's detention with Snape, a whole day of Harry's most hated teacher insulting him as much as he wanted. It always left him in a sour mood, one the Hermione often had to undo herself. She glanced back to Harry, who suddenly looked downcast.

"Yes, it is…" He stared dispassionately at the clock face, deliberating over whether it was worth actually turning up. Of course, Harry knew it was for the best that he did. He deserved it, after all, even if what he had done to Malfoy was an accident.

That didn't mean his entire day had to be wasted, however.

"Hermione," he said softly, "I would love to study some potions this evening if you want."

Hermione smiled, taking his hand in her's.

"So would I, Harry." She nudged him with his shoulder. "We'll get you back to the top of the class in no time."

"I thought you coveted that spot."

"I'd be more than happy to give it away to whoever _earns_ it." Before Harry could protest, Hermione pulled him into a tight hug. "Don't let Snape get to you, okay?"

The feeling of his arms wrapping around her, in turn, sent a shiver down her spine.

"Okay." Reluctantly, he untangled himself from her embrace, standing up and walking towards the portrait hole. He gave her one last passing look over his shoulder, which she met with her own wistful gaze. "See you soon."

* * *

Once again, detention was set in the dingy excuse for Snape's old office, stuffed with towering stacks of old boxes, all filled to bursting with disciplinary cards needing to be copied and filed. It was the epitome of tedium, an activity that chewed away the hours with all the enthusiasm of a slug. And, to provide further insult, it was all to be done in silence. Or, at least, _Harry's_ silence, because Professor Snape certainly didn't abide by that rule, taking time out of his day to spite him with insult after insult, and Harry could do nothing but take it.

Luckily the breathing exercises that Hermione had taught him for his panic attacks had another use. They also worked exceptionally well when it came to countering anger, a fact that Harry had fully taken advantage of. As much as Harry wanted to respond to Snape's words with some of his own, ultimately he knew it would be far more aggravating to remain silent, to not take the bait. He had to admit, watching Snape get more and more desperately to provoke any kind of reaction out of him, only to bristle when he failed, was immensely satisfying.

Of course, once Snape had decided to move one from insulting him to insulting his friends, Harry had a bit more difficulty keeping his temper in check. Especially when Hermione was the victim of the man's vile remarks.

"It's a shame that these detentions are keeping you from spending more time with Miss Granger," he drawled, after yet another one of his long-winded speeches. At this point, Harry's primary response was to zone out, ignore what Snape was saying, get on with the task at hand. Hearing his best friend's name, however, had snared Harry's attention, something that Snape had noticed and was more than willing to exploit. "Perhaps her academic discipline would straighten you out. Then again, if I had a friend as insufferable as her, I would have gladly taken detention, rather than be forced to listen to her jabbering away."

Harry took in a deep, quiet breath, just as Hermione had shown him, centring his focus on the card on the desk. He continued copying the faded words carefully, letter for letter. He wanted to smash Snape's head against the table, but expressing even a fraction of that anger towards Snape would only benefit him, so, Harry remained silent. Snape stiffened, his scowl deepening to a full frown. Harry could tell, even from across the room, that he was starting to try Snape's patience. He scoffed inwardly. Serves him right, Harry thought.

Deciding that he finally had enough of subtlety, the slimy potion's master rounded on Harry, putting them practically face-to-face.

"Then again, I'm sure she wouldn't have been stupid enough to use a curse on a fellow student without knowing it's full effects." If Snape meant for his words to have any bite, they failed. Harry kept his head down, refusing to dignify the man's barbs with any kind of response. "You're lucky that I happened upon you and Master Malfoy in time; otherwise you would be in dire trouble. If it weren't for me, perhaps you'd have followed your godfather to Azkaban."

Harry exhaled, his grip on his quill tightening. He was about to think of some seething response that might he have said if he were allowed or were stupid enough when a thought struck him.

Harry ran back through his memory, back to the scene in the toilets, seeing Malfoy on the floor, blood flowing from a vicious cut that appeared on his chest. He remembered how Snape had appeared, just in time, chanting a spell that Harry couldn't recognise that quickly closed Malfoy's wounds.

It was remarkable to Harry just how lucky Malfoy was that Snape knew the correct counter curse to heal his life-threatening injuries. How fortunate that Snape just so happened to know the countercurse to a spell that no one else knew. A spell that, according to even Hermione's thorough research, didn't exist anywhere else except inside Harry's potions textbook. A spell that Snape had to have recognised almost immediately to save Malfoy's life.

Maybe it wasn't luck, Harry pondered. Perhaps, as the evidence concurred, Snape really did know _exactly_ what Harry had hit Malfoy with. But if Snape knew about _Sectumsempra_, then…

Harry ran the idea through his head again and again and again, trying to find fault in it. No, he thought. Snape was _not_ the Half-Blood Prince, how could he be? It wasn't possible. Surely. Right? But no matter how much Harry tried to deny it, he couldn't stop the pieces in his brain from clicking together. The mastery of potions; the propensity for the dark arts; Snape's knowledge of the countercurse; his insistence in searching Harry's textbooks; how he knew immediately that Harry had used Ron's instead. The timing would fit, too. Snape must have attended Hogwarts around the same time when the book was new, around thirty years ago, maybe.

Harry realised as he brought himself back into the now, that his quill had stopped writing altogether, arrested on a singular point of the parchment. His eye trailed again to the card on the desk, noticing that one particular entry was covered up. Harry picked up the card in his hand, releasing it from under the parchment, revealing the rest of the entry. His blood ran cold. Dated 12th March 1977, it read:

_Severus Snape. Unknown laceration curse on Stephanie Brown. Victim's wounds healed by the perpetrator the scene. Two months daily evening detention._

The rest of Harry's copying session passed like a blur. His brain could barely function, it felt like every cog in his head had fallen out of place, only allowing him the basic capacity to read and copy. Before he knew it, the detention had ended, and he was walking free. His feet found the Gryffindor Common Room before his eyes did, his brain only catching up once he found his place on the sofa in front of the fireplace.

He knew that Hermione would be back from the library eventually, ready to meet him with open arms, to hear about his day. Today, however, she carried with her something far more important. Today, she had presumably spent her time researching the Prince, about who they could be. If her theory about Eileen Prince was correct, or least lead to another person - anyone but Snape - then at least he could rest easier. At least he could rest assured he hadn't put his undying faith in Snape - nearly _killed_ a person because of Snape. Suddenly, everything Harry had done over the past year came into startling clarity. How he had defended the Prince, made so many excuses for them, tried desperately to hold onto that precious book, despite the horrible, horrible things it contained. Hermione's cautionary words, her constant and vocal denouncement of that book felt all the more relevant.

Harry realised, now more than ever, Hermione deserved an apology.

A few minutes later, the portrait hole opened, and Hermione stepped inside. Spotting him, she hesitantly made her way over to the spot by his side. Her face rang of either shock or confusion, or maybe both. Either way, it spoke only bad omens.

"Harry, you're not going to believe this," she said gravely, crushing what little hope for some good news Harry still had. "I was looking through old copies of the Daily Prophet… tucked away in a back issue from the 60s, there was an article about Eileen. Apparently, she married a man called Tobias…"

She paused for a moment, seemingly unable to carry on. Harry held his breath.

"T-Tobias Snape." Harry paled. Her hand gripped his tightly. "Her son was called Severus. Harry… you don't think…?"

But Harry knew the answer. He knew, deep down, before she had even arrived.

"It's him," he replied resolutely. "I know it is."

He went to explain what he had heard in his detention, how it related to what had happened to Malfoy, every conclusion Harry had drawn up, beat by beat. Slowly, but inevitably, Hermione's frightfully reluctance turned into dawning horror, as she too realised the truth.

Snape had been the Half-Blood Prince all along.

Soon, though, the horror in Harry's chest subsided, smothered by a deep, burning hatred. Snape, the man who had called his father and his godfather no-good troublemakers, the worst kind of humans, had been creating dark curses in his free time. Back when Harry's father was occupied with harmless jokes, Snape's weapons of choice were the curses of cowards, the types that aimed to hurt, to maim, to kill.

And Harry had let himself be caught up in it, all because it got him a better grade in potions.

As far as Harry was concerned, he never wanted to see that textbook again. Now, with a new-found purpose, he stood from his seat, marching towards the entranceway.

"Harry?" Hermione asked from behind him. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"

Harry turned, allowing Hermione a proper view at his incensed look, a picture of fury she dreaded to see on her best friend's face.

His response was clipped and blunt.

"To destroy that stupid book."


	4. Shoulders High In The Room

CHAPTER IV: Shoulders High In The Room

"I'm not going to say it," Hermione announced aloud, as she and Harry marched up the stairs, straight towards the Seventh Floor. Harry looked at her from the corner of his eye, one eyebrow raised in a way that made him look unconvinced.

"But you are, aren't you?" he stated rhetorically. Hermione tried to glare at him, to protest that she could control herself, that she wouldn't say the four words that had been screaming through her head for the past few hours. Ever since she had learned the turn about who exactly the Half-Blood Prince was. "Go on. I know you want to."

And so she did.

"I told you so!" she exclaimed. "I told you, you-" Her eyes grew to the size of saucers, her eyes darting around wild to see if anyone heard. Hushing herself, she carried on in a softer tone of voice. "I told you that the Prince was bad news. I knew it! If you had just listened to me from the start-"

"From the start?" Harry scoffed. "Back when the only reason you hated the book was that it helped me beat you at potions?"

"That is hardly the point, Harry! The point is that you shouldn't have messed with that book in the first place."

"How was I supposed to know that it belonged to that slimy bastard? As far as I knew it was just a textbook with notes in it," he seethed. "It's got to the point where even my textbooks are dangerous. My bloody textbooks, Hermione!"

"I think Hagrid made sure that this wasn't the first time," Hermione mentioned.

"You know what I mean!"

He saw Hermione flinch at his tone and realised immediately that he had crossed a line. He took several deep breaths, calming himself, realising that it wasn't Hermione that he was angry with. She certainly didn't deserve to deal with his attitude.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said wearily, palming his forehead. "I'm just… tired of it all. I'm tired of having no choice. I hate that, no matter how hard I try, it's always me. Like everything I do or everything I own has to mean something."

Turning back to the girl by his side, Harry realised that he hadn't explained himself very well, not if the confused expression on her face was anything to go by. He readjusted himself, plotting out the right words to describe his thoughts.

"I nearly killed a person, because of that book," he explained, trying to express in a glance the depth of his shame. "Even if it was Malfoy, I still nearly did it. I never thought it would come to that. And I know, I should've taken it more seriously. I know, looking back, if I had taken the time to look into it, if I had studied it properly, I might have figured out that it was dangerous… but a part of me feels like, 'Well, surely I shouldn't have to'.

"Why should I have to second guess everything in my life? Why do I have to be surrounded by all these coincidences? Why can't I have something or do something or meet someone who is just normal? Why can't I just be normal, for once?"

Hermione was looking at him with the same concerned expression that he saw during his panic attacks. The same expression that she would usually adopt whenever he was in pain or injured, and every time he saw it, Harry was reminded just how much she really cared for him.

"You know, it's why I was interested in Ginny," he chuckled awkwardly, "for a time. Because she's so… so… nonplussed about it all. She's so cool, she's so… there. Like, when she's in the room, she just owns the stage, so much so that sometimes she helps me forget that I'm the chosen one."

Hermione pursed her lips, her brow furrowed in an endearing way. A motherly way that made him feel warm inside.

"So, you want someone who just sees you as you?" she asked.

Harry nodded.

"Yeah, I guess so," he shrugged as if it were some farfetched wish.

"Not even I did that," Hermione remember solemnly. "Not at first."

"No," Harry concurred, "but you have ever since. More often than most. How do you manage it? I mean, it seems like every year I'm pulling you and Ron into some dangerous new adventure, for the fate of the world. Is it difficult, not seeing me as the Boy-Who-Lived?"

From anyone else's mouth it might've come off as arrogant, but the way that Harry spoke of his title, the one he had been given nearly 16 years ago, made it sound like a horrible slur. Hermione shook her head, taking Harry's arms in her's.

"No, Harry," she assured him with a smile, "because I know that if you had any other choice, you wouldn't be. Which is why it frustrates me, too, to see you so caught up in these grand conspiracies. You deserve a normal, quiet year Harry. You, more than any of us. Most of the people in this school don't realise how lucky they are, that they have the choice to just be like anyone else. That they have the choice to be anonymous."

"You do, too," Harry pointed out. Under her piercing, expectant gaze, Harry shrank away, refusing to meet her eyes. "If you wanted. You could run away, leave me to deal with Voldemort by myself. You don't have to-"

"Harry," she said, interrupting every thought in his brain. He looked up and saw her staring at him, her eyes filled with an emotion he couldn't quite identify. "Running away was never an option. Especially not from you. You need me, so I'm staying."

Harry tried to smile back, but he failed.

"And what if I get you killed?" he asked, his voice hoarse as he suddenly felt far older than his sixteen years of age. "What if you're the next person I lose?"

Hermione cupped his cheek, stroking it with her thumb.

"You can't think of it like that, Harry." She manoeuvred his face so that he staring her dead in the eye. "Look at me. I'm here, now, because I want to be, because I will never leave you, Harry."

Harry couldn't help the way his hand found her waist, the surprise mingled with relief when his hands found her body, and he realised that she really was there. Just like she'd promised she would be.

Hermione, the one he could rely on to be there for him when no one else was. The who never gave up on him, who was always there to lend a hand, to comfort him in the worst of times. The one person he trusted most in the whole wide world.

Harry's mind imagined her absence for only a moment, and the thought flooded him with more terror than he thought possible.

"Hermione. I…" Harry didn't know what he was about to say when he started talking, but he knew he had to say something. People who felt like this usually say something. He noticed for the first time, as he was staring at her, that there was a pleasant aroma around her.

"Have you got a new perfume?" he asked, to which she merely chortled sweetly.

"Lavender," she replied. "I'm just trying it out."

"I really like it," he told her honestly, and she smiled brightly, illuminated her eyes in a way that ripped the breath from his lungs. That was it, he thought to himself. He had to tell her. "Hermione…" he began.

She gazed on, patiently waiting.

"Y…You're my best friend."

Hermione tilted her head at him.

"I know, you've told me," she assured him. "Many times."

"No," he insisted, holding her tighter. "Hermione, you… I mean, what I'm trying to say is…"

And yet the words wouldn't come. His tongue twisted and his throat closed and his teeth felt large and obstructive in his mouth.

"It's okay," she tried to placate him, to which Harry sigh in frustration.

"No, it's not," Harry growled, disappointed in himself. "I-I can't say it."

"Why not?" she asked.

Harry looked up, gazing at Hermione's warm face, framed by curls upon curls of chocolate brown hair like a beautiful mane. The feeling he held for her, so deep they threatened to take the strength from his body, so powerful that he couldn't possibly think of the words.

"I don't know," Harry said finally, and he hung his head, suddenly realising far more about himself than he enjoyed. So much for the house of the brave.

Their conversation was interrupted, however, by the sound of the bricks on the far wall twisting and morphing. They turned and saw the doors of the Room of Requirement begin to take shape.

"That was quick," Hermione admired, smiling at him. Harry stared back at her, suddenly realising what she presumed.

"That's not me," he said shaking his head. Hermione's eyes widened. Clearly, it wasn't her doing either. So whose was it? Just as the question passed through his head, the doors began to fully materialise. "Quickly, behind here."

Harry took hold of Hermione's arms and pulled her behind a nearby stone pillar, pulling her into himself as tightly as possible to hide them from view.

The pair heard the sound of two heavy iron-cast doors swing open, and footsteps striding out, quickly making their way down the hallway, luckily heading away from their hiding place.

Harry and Hermione chanced a peek around the corner of the pillar, and their eyes immediately met the back of a head of platinum blonde hair.

"Malfoy?" Harry whispered. "What's he doing in there?"

"Does it matter?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," Harry murmured. "I really think it does."

They until Malfoy turned the corner of the hallway, then wait, just to be sure, for a couple of minutes more.

It was only after a solid minute of silence, that Harry took his chances.

"Okay, I think he's gone," he announced quietly. Harry walked up to where the door used to be, having sunken back into the wall when Malfoy departed. He began pacing back and forth in front of the wall, muttering something softly.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, only hearing what he was saying as she began to tread closer.

"I need to see what Draco has been up to," he was quietly chanting, a look of intense concentration on his face. Hermione sighed.

"You think it's something to do with him being a Death Eater," she reasoned. Harry gave a serious look in return.

"I know it is," he replied. "But what?"

"You don't think you're reading too far into it?" she offered as the towering oak doors of the Room of Requirement began to slowly reappear. Harry smirked, glancing at her cheekily.

"Well, look at how the tables have turned, Miss Granger."

Hermione blushed despite herself.

The doors opened to a large room full of what looked like abandoned things. Piles and piles of rubbish as far as the eyes could see, things like tables, chairs, books, glasses, goblet, chests, and all sorts of other lost items. Immediately in front of them, however, alone in the middle of a cleared out space, lay a cabinet. The junk that would have hidden it pushed away to make room for it, creating a large circle around it, allowing the ambient light from the open door to shine directly onto it like a spotlight. Harry and Hermione instinctively knew that this was what Harry had asked for.

"Is that it?" Harry asked, slightly disappointed.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, more to herself than to Harry. Not that he could tell the difference by the way he shrugged.

"How am I supposed to know. It just looks like a wardrobe."

The two circled around it, studying the wooden contraption for any clue as to its purpose. Which Hermione soon found.

"What's that?" Harry heard her murmur, to which he quickly walked over to her side.

"Hmm?" he asked.

"There're runes, all along the sides," she explained, her finger lightly tracing the top of the cabinet, where what looked like runes lay carved into the wood. "'Door to Door, Brother to Brother.' This thing looks ancient."

"What's Malfoy been doing with it?"

"I don't know." Her attention soon turned to the sides, where a large line ran up along the walls of the box. "It looks like it's been fixed recently. Maybe he's the one who fixed it. But whatever for?"

Harry took a step back, taking a good long look at it, closing the doors of the Room just incase. Just as the doors closed, they disappeared, revealing that they were far deeper into the room than Harry initially realised. He turned back to point this out to Hermione when he paused. Suddenly seeing the cabinet again, in the dingy, musty light of the rubbish reminded him of something. Something that happened to him a few years before.

Harry's eyes widened as he finally connected the dots.

"I've seen this cabinet before," he announced. Hermione's head popped around the corner almost comically, her face alight with curiosity.

"What? When?"

"Do you remember back before second year?" Harry asked. "When we met in Diagon Alley?"

"Yes?"

"Early that morning, I accidentally flooed into the wrong fireplace. I ended up in Knockturn Alley. Specifically Borgin and Burkes. That's where I saw this cabinet."

"In Borgin and Burkes?" Hermione asked, to which Harry nodded. "But why would Dumbledore buy a cabinet from Borgin and Burkes?"

"Who says Dumbledore bought it? "

"Well, it would've been under his supervision," Hermione deduced, dusting off her hands on her skirt. "A student couldn't possibly sneak this in. Unless…"

Hermione paused, a thought suddenly occurring to her.

"Harry," Hermione asked, "did you get in it?"

Harry looked at her.

"In what?"

"The cabinet, in Borgin and Burkes?"

Harry thought back to that day, back to when he was but twelve years old, stuck in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by darkness and horrible things.

"Yes," he remembered, "I think I did, to hide from Draco and his father."

"Did you close the door?"

"What?"

"Harry," she said urgently, "did you close the door?"

"No," he quickly insisted, "I didn't I kept it open, just a little, just so I could spy on Malfoy."

Hermione's brow furrowed, and she bit her lower lip, testing out an idea in her head.

"Let me test something," she held out her hand. "Give me something I can use."

"Will I be getting it back?" Harry smirked. Hermione shrugged.

"I honestly don't know."

Harry decided, then and there, that hearing those words coming out of Hermione's mouth was one of the most uncomfortable feelings he had ever experienced. Without hesitation, he took off his jumper and gave it Hermione, who smiled and rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek. She then carried it over to the cabinet, opened it, placed the jumper carefully inside and closed the door. Hermione waiting for several seconds, before she hesitantly opened it again.

The jumper was nowhere to be seen. Hermione gasped loudly, and Harry quickly found her side, checking to see if she was okay.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Harry," she said faintly, with a hint of wonder, "this is a vanishing cabinet."

"A what?"

"A vanishing cabinet," she repeated a broad smile on her face, her eyes wide. "I read about them. They were used pretty often during Voldemort's time. Someone could step inside one cabinet, close the door, then step out of another. An easy escape route."

Harry frowned.

"Then the cabinet in Borgin and Burkes must be a different one," he surmised. "That's why he's been fixing it. He's trying to sneak something in Hogwarts."

The expression on Hermione's face quickly turned from wide-eyed amazement to pale-faced dread, as she realised the implications.

"Or someone," she pointed out.

Harry glanced at her, his face set. Hermione saw him remove his wand from his pocket.

"Harry, what are you doing?"

She felt him grab her arm, pulling her behind him as he took several paces away from the cabinet. She saw his wrist movement and realised he was preparing to cast a spell. The incineration spell. Her eyes widened.

"Harry, stop!" she called, grabbing his hand gently and pulling it away. "He might not have fixed it yet."

"How do you know?" he challenged.

"Look," she insisted, as she pulled him back towards the cabinet.

Hermione quickly closed the door and reopened it. The jumper did not reappear. She gave a sigh of relief.

"I knew it," she replied. Harry stared at her dumbly.

"So?"

"Right now it can make things disappear," Hermione carefully explained, rubbing his arm in a soothing manner, "but not reappear. When I closed the door, instead of sending your jumper to the other cabinet, it just made it vanish into thin air."

"So, where did it go?" Harry asked. Hermione gave him a strange look.

"It didn't _go_ anywhere. It just _vanished_," Hermione described with an unsettling finality. "But that's a good thing because it means that this one is useless to him for now."

"But he's close," Harry argued. "Look at it. It doesn't look very broken."

Hermione rolled her eyes endearingly.

"Fixing a vanishing cabinet takes more than a simple repair spell," she assured him. "You have to repair the enchantments as well. The cabinet is just a shell for the real magic that happens inside of it. And so far he hasn't gotten that to work yet. We have time."

"But how much?" he warned. "It could be fixed by tomorrow for all we know."

Hermione smiled, pulling out her own wand.

"Not if we have anything to say about it," she smirked, making Harry suddenly feel a thousand times better. She presented her wands, waving it around, preparing it. "Repeat after me, Harry," she instructed, demonstrating a slicing motion with her wand, cutting the air in a horizontal line. "'Finite Incantatem'. Ready?"

Harry nodded.

"Finite Incantatem," he chanted at the same time as Hermione, slicing the air. A purple glow erupted from the ends of their wands. The cabinet shook, ratlin from side to side so violent that Harry thought it was going to topple over before it fell deathly still.

Harry, gasped, suddenly feeling very tired as if he had just run a long, arduous race. Hermione buckled beside him, and he caught her just before she toppled to the ground.

Hermione leaned on his shoulder, hugging his arm for support, as Harry rose to his feet.

"Okay, what now?" he asked, slightly winded.

"Give me your tie," she ordered tiredly.

Harry carefully unravelled the Windsor knot around his neck and presented it to Hermione, who ceremoniously placed it into the cabinet and shut the door. She waited for a few moments, just like the first time, before reopening it. Contrary to her last demonstration, the tie remained, and Hermione she smiled a satisfied grin.

"Mind telling me what you did?" Harry chuckled, seeing how her hands had clasped together excitedly.

"_We_, Harry," she reminded him. "We removed the cabinet's enchantments. It's just a cabinet now."

"Is that why I suddenly feel drained?" Harry assumed.

"It takes a lot of magic to disenchant an artefact this big," she noted. "I couldn't do it alone. Thank you."

"Thank _you_," he insisted, pulling her into a hug. Hermione stiffened, unused to Harry initiating hugs - that was usually her job - but she soon relaxed, relishing the feeling him, wrapped around her.

The two merely stood in each other's embrace for a while, the exertion of the counter-spell rendering them perfectly happy to stand around relaxing. Eventually, though, they knew they had to move. They had to do something.

"We need to tell the headmaster," Harry told her, leaning back to see her face. Hermione nodded, her smile was replaced with a determined frown.

"Agreed."

The two soon after departed, heading straight for the headmaster's office.

* * *

"Mr Potter, Miss Granger," Professor Dumbledore called as he strode down the seventh-floor hallway a few minutes later, several paces behind both Harry and Hermione. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but please remember I am getting on a bit."

The two paused, looking slightly embarrassed as they allowed the old headmaster to catch up.

"I'm sorry, sir, but this is urgent," Harry explained.

"He's right," Hermione chorused.

"I don't doubt it," he nodded and continued at a more sedate pace.

The trio reached the empty wall, and Harry began pacing back and forth, whilst Dumbledore took a moment to admire the tapestry beside it. Specifically, the one that depicted Barnabas the Barmy attempting to instruct a group of eight mountain trolls in the art of ballet, each of the hulking beasts dressed in bright tutus, floundering in their attempts at plies.

"I always like this tapestry," Dumbledore remarked. "I grew up on stories of Barnabas. Do you know what happened to him after this?"

"What happened, sir?" Hermione asked as Harry concentrated on opening the room.

"The trolls ate him," Dumbledore replied. "Apparently, that was how they discovered their taste for humans. A shame, really. He was an enthusiastic teacher if a little confused."

He turned back to Hermione, a glint of mischief in his eye.

"If you're here to show me the Room of Requirement, I'm already very aware of its existence, I'm afraid," he noted.

Harry scoffed.

"Forgive me, sir, but I'm not surprised," he said offhandedly, before turning back towards the wall. "I need to see what Draco has been doing."

Dumbledore suddenly looked very tired.

"Harry-" he attempted to placate, but Harry shook his head.

"Please, professor," he begged, just as the Room of Requirement opened once more.

Harry gestured Dumbledore inwards and the old man walked inside, prompting Harry and Hermione to follow. When Dumbledore finally noticed the vanishing cabinet in the centre of the cleared out space, surrounded by walls of furniture, he didn't seem surprised. In fact, he looked at it with an air of recognition, one which Harry immediately noticed.

"You know what it is, don't you?" Harry asked.

"Indeed," Dumbledore nodded. "I'd been meaning to throw it away. Especially when its twin found its way into Mr Borgin's possession."

Harry's eyes widened and his face fell.

"You knew?" he accused. "You knew about the one in Borgin's?"

"I did," Dumbledore replied calmly. "However, I knew the threat it once posed had passed when Peeves broke it in your second year."

"Not anymore," Harry retorted. "Draco's been trying to fix it."

"'Trying,' Harry?"

"Well, we found it earlier today, when we were…" Harry paused, remembering what their original mission had been, what he had been trying to get rid of, and suddenly feeling very guilty.

"When you were what, Harry?" Dumbledore prompted.

Harry took a deep breath, determined to be brave.

"When I was coming to destroy my potions textbook," he explained. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

"I never considered you a vandal, Harry. Although, we all have our hobbies. May I see that textbook, Harry?"

Harry withdrew his wand and waved around his head.

"Accio textbook."

The potions book flew from a far corner of the room and landed in his hand. Somehow it felt heavier than it used, despite Harry knowing that actual weight hadn't changed.

Dumbledore politely took it from Harry's outstretched palm and examined it, turning the pages, carefully. The twinkle in his eye disappeared as he read page after page after page.

"This used to belong to Professor Snape, I believe," he said, his usual warmth chillingly absent.

"Yes," Harry nodded. Dumbledore glanced at him, neither angry nor upset. Rather disappointed, which hurt far more than either.

"Is this where you found the dark curse you used on Mr Malfoy?"

"Yes, sir."

Dumbledore sighed, clasping it shut.

"Why did you not report this to me, immediately?"

Harry met the headmaster's gaze, channelling all the frustration he had felt that morning into courage, forcing himself to stand taller for Dumbledore's inspection.

"Because I was selfish, sir," he answered truthfully. "Because I thought that my grades were more important than the safety of those around me." Harry eyes momentarily found Hermione, who was looking at him with an apologetic expression, as if she wanted to speak up in his defence, but knew that she couldn't. Harry wouldn't have let her anyway. This was his fault, and he wasn't about to let anyone take it for him. "However, if I knew it had belonged to Snape, sir, I never would have used it."

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore corrected, to which Harry's eyes darkened.

"He's not my professor, sir," Harry replied darkly. "Nor does he deserve to be."

"Harry-"

"Just read that book, sir. The things he's written in there-"

"Are all things I already know," Dumbledore replied patiently. "I would appreciate if we could move on to the matter of the vanishing cabinet?"

Harry wanted to argue on, but he knew that it was pointless. This wasn't the first time Dumbledore had taken Snape's side, and it wouldn't be the last. The very fact that Snape was teaching in Hogwarts was proof of that.

"Of course," Harry said, taking a deep breath. "Sorry, sir."

Dumbledore seemed to accept his apology and soon turned his attention back towards the cabinet.

"What do you believe I should do to it?" the old man asked them both.

"Well, Harry and I removed the enchantments on the cabinet, sir," Hermione quickly explained, trying to discreetly emphasise Harry's involvement. "It's completely useless to anyone now."

"Excellent initiative, Miss Granger," Dumbledore smiled. "What else is to be done?"

"I think we need to deal with Draco, sir," Harry offered. "For good."

Dumbledore more hummed.

"Is that so?"

Harry glanced at him, his brow furrowing.

"You don't think we should?"

The headmaster shook his head.

"Mr Malfoy is no longer a threat," Dumbledore explained. "You and Miss Granger made sure of that."

"But that doesn't mean he won't try other things," Harry pointed out. "He gave Katie the cursed necklace and nearly poisoned Ron-"

Dumbledore gave Harry a stern look.

"Those are bold accusations, Harry," he warned.

"Oh, come off it! We both know he was responsible!" Harry growled.

"Harry," Hermione quietly exclaimed, her eyes wide.

"Harry," Dumbledore admonished, "I would ask you to calm down."

"I will once you have Malfoy expelled," Harry challenged, "or arrested, even!"

"I will not be expelling Mr Malfoy," Dumbledore said firmly. "That is my final decision."

Harry stared him down, refusing to give in so easily.

"What are you not telling me about him?" he challenged, gauging the old man's face very carefully. "What are you keeping from me?"

Dumbledore remained passive, drawing himself up to his full height and pocketing the textbook.

"Thank you, both, for bringing this to my attention," he calmly told them. "Twenty points to Gryffindor each for your initiative. Good afternoon."

And with that, the door out of the room reappeared and Dumbledore stepped through it, closing it behind him with a twitch of his finger.

Once he was gone, Hermione turned to him, her mouth agape.

"Harry," she scolded, "you shouldn't have been so rude!"

"Hermione," Harry bit back, "you know he was hiding something."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Obviously," she countered, "but he wouldn't do that unless there was a good reason for it." She suddenly looked uncertain, wrapping herself tightly in her jumper. "Would he?"

Harry glanced back at where the door used to be, seeing Dumbledore striding through it, acting completely dispassionate towards Harry's anger, just like he had done so many times during last year.

"I don't know, Hermione," he said truthfully, as anxious as she was, but refusing to show it, for her sake. "I don't know."

The pair soon left, their moods much lower than when they arrived.


	5. Enemy, All Over My Body

CHAPTER V: Enemy, All Over My Body

The next few days passed slowly. Harry, still very aware of Draco's plans, made it a habit to check on the Room of Requirement every day, scoping it out to see if the Slytherin made an appearance. So far, he hadn't, which did nothing for Harry's nerves.

Luckily, he had Hermione to keep him somewhat grounded. She didn't exactly condone his obsessive behaviour, she knew that he had reason to do it - a valid reason at that. She had seen first hand the depths to Malfoy would go to achieve his plans, so if what it took to keep others safe was to give up Harry for an hour each day, then so be it.

However, she always made him pack an extra bottle of calming draught, specially made by her after several weeks of practise. He treasured it gladly, smiling at the lavender cutting carefully taped to the side of the glass.

He would often rub it, just when he was bored or lonely, imagining the care that Hermione had put into it, how she would smile whenever he noticed the effort. He wondered if this was what it felt like when couples did similar things. He had seen instances of Molly Weasley decorated her husband's lunch box, tucking in endearing notes and treats, sending him off for a new day.

The thought of his own wife, beautiful and smiling and loving, came to Harry's mind, and he blushed bright red, glad that he was hidden behind a pillar on the deserted seventh floor where no one could see him. It was a welcome thought, something that Harry had imagined for years now. A family, all of his own, divorced from the prophecy, or the Order, or the responsibility of saving the world. Something normal and peaceful. With someone who he could love and cherish and not have to worry about their safety. Someone who could give him children to love in turn.

Someone who smelled like lavender flowers. That would be nice. Ginny smelled like lavender, didn't she?

A crash from nearby broke through his daydreams, and Harry sprung to life. He spied out from behind the pillar, expecting to see Malfoy. But it wasn't him. Instead, it was someone desperately clutching at a large wooden box, spilling dozens of clear bottles all over the floor of the hallway.

It was Professor Trelawney, he realised. His used-to-be Divination teacher.

"Professor?" Harry called as he walked out from behind the pillar. Trelawney jumped, shrieking in surprise. She turned towards him suddenly, her glasses warping her eyes into huge, blinking headlamps.

"Oh, Harry," she gasped. "Oh, deary me. I was just getting rid of- um, I mean, transporting a few things to my classroom." She casually tried to sweep some of the bottles behind her, away from view, smiling as casually as she could, which of course meant very awkwardly.

"Right," Harry nodded, unconvinced. "Would you like a hand with those?"

Trelawney glanced at Harry, then back to the bottles strewn across the hallway.

"Yes," she nodded numbly, "O-Of course. Thank you, my boy."

Harry slowly began picking up the empty bottle glancing at the label, noticing for the first time that they all used to contain sherry. _Used _to, because Harry was pretty sure where it had all gone if Trelawney's erratic swaying and murmuring were any sign.

"Are you alright, Professor?" he asked carefully.

"Yes, why, yes, my boy," she stuttered. "Simply… tired. Yes, tired. Must be working myself thin. Oh, I remember when I used to be young. I had dreams, Mr Potter. Dreams of becoming a great Seer. And now look at me. A teacher."

"Being a teacher isn't so bad," he tried reassuring her as if he deposited a few more bottles into the crate.

"Oh, no, I suppose not, but oh, there are so many who come into my classroom who do not possess the gift. And far fewer interesting Objects. I always found that you, Harry, were a fascinating Object."

"Right," Harry murmured, remembered very well what it was like being Trelawney's object of interest and how much he hated it.

"One of the most interesting I've ever seen… But, oh, look at me. I'm not your teacher any more, no since you decided to… quit."

The last word she spoke with a tone of voice so flat that Harry almost paused.

"Well, I just didn't have the gift, did I?" he offered, to which Trelawney sighed.

"No, you didn't. You were a dull Seer. Still, we can't all read the universe and its signs with fluency. No, not like me."

"No," Harry nodded, "I don't think anyone's quite like you, Professor."

It certainly wasn't a _lie_, Harry justified to a scolding voice in his head that sounded very much like Hermione.

"Oh, but they mock me, Harry!" she cried furiously. "I heard people say that I have not inherited my great-great-grandmother's gift. Those rumours have been bandied about by the jealous for years. You know what I say to such people, Harry? Would Dumbledore have let me teach at this great school, put so much trust in me all these years, had I not proved myself to him?"

Harry mumbled something indistinct, placing the last bottle in the crate and lifting it into his arms, carrying it as Trelawney absently lead him to her Divination classroom.

"I well remember my first interview with Dumbledore," went on Professor Trelawney, in throaty tones. "He was deeply impressed, of course, deeply impressed ... I was staying at the Hog's Head, which I do not advise, incidentally - bed bugs, dear boy - but funds were low. Dumbledore did me the courtesy of calling upon me in my room at the inn. He questioned me ... I must confess that, at first, I thought he seemed ill-disposed towards Divination ... and I remember I was starting to feel a little odd, I had not eaten much that day ... but then …"

And now Harry was paying attention properly for the first time, for he knew what had happened then: Professor Trelawney had made the prophecy that had altered the course of his whole life, the prophecy about him and Voldemort.

'"… but then we were rudely interrupted by Severus Snape!"

"What?"

"Yes, there was a commotion outside the door and it flew open, and there was that rather uncouth barman standing with Snape, who was waffling about having come the wrong way up the stairs, although I'm afraid that I myself rather thought he had been apprehended eavesdropping on my interview with Dumbledore - you see, he himself was seeking a job at the time, and no doubt hoped to pick up tips! Well, after that, you know, Dumbledore seemed much more disposed to give me a job, and I could not help thinking, Harry, that it was because he appreciated the stark contrast between my own unassuming manners and quiet talent, compared to the pushing, thrusting young man who was prepared to listen at keyholes - Harry, dear?"

She looked back over her shoulder, having only just realised that Harry was no longer with her; he had stopped walking, and they were now ten feet from each other.

"Harry?" she repeated with uncertainty.

Harry was standing stock-still as waves of shock crashed over him, wave after wave, obliterating everything except the information that had been kept from him for so long.

Without another word, Harry put down the box of sherry bottles and began marching - nearly jogging - the other way, his face set in stone, and his eyes burning.

"Harry?" he heard Trelawney call after him. "Harry, do mind-?"

But it was too late. Harry turned to the corner before she could finish her sentence.

He didn't stop, not until he reached the gargoyle guarding the steps to the headmaster's office.

Harry dictated the password at the gargoyle and ran up the moving spiral staircase three steps at a time. He did not knock upon Dumbledore's door, he hammered; and the calm voice answered, "Enter," after Harry had already flung himself into the room.

Fawkes the phoenix looked round, his bright black eyes gleaming with reflected gold from the sunset beyond the window. Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, carefully writing. He glanced up and smiled.

"Harry," he greeted. "How can I help you?"

"It was Snape," Harry said, trying desperately to keep his voice level. "It was him who overheard the prophecy. Don't pretend it's not true. Trelawney told me."

Dumbledore's expression did not change, but Harry thought his face whitened under the bloody tinge cast by the setting sun. For a long moment, Dumbledore said nothing.

"When did you find out about this?" he asked at last.

"Just now!" said Harry, who was refraining from yelling with enormous difficulty. And then, suddenly, he found he could no longer stop himself. After all that had happened to him recently, his patience had been worn thin. "And you let him TEACH here, and he told Voldemort TO GO AFTER MY MUM AND DAD!"

Breathing hard as though he were fighting, Harry turned away from Dumbledore, who still had not moved a muscle, and paced up and down the study, rubbing his knuckles in his hand and exercising every last bit of restraint to prevent himself knocking things over. He wanted to rage and storm at Dumbledore, he wanted to tell him that he was a foolish old man for trusting Snape, but he was terrified that Dumbledore would just shut him out, dismiss his qualms as teenage angst and nothing more…

"Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "Please listen to me. Professor Snape made a terrible-"

"Don't tell me it was a _mistake_, sir, he was listening at the door!"

"Please let me finish." Dumbledore waited until Harry had nodded curtly, then went on. "Professor Snape made a terrible mistake. He was still in Lord Voldemort's employ on the night he heard the first half of Professor Trelawney's prophecy. Naturally, he hastened to tell his master what he had heard, for it concerned his master most deeply. But he did not know - he had no possible way of knowing - which boy Voldemort would hunt from then onwards-"

Harry let out a yell of mirthless laughter.

"So, what, because it was just any old child he would have been fine with it, would he? He was a Death Eater, Professor. As far as I'm concerned, he chose his side many years ago. Professor... how can you be sure Snape's on our side, even now?"

Dumbledore did not speak for a moment; he looked as though he was trying to make up his mind about something. At last, he said, "I am sure. I trust Severus Snape completely."

Harry breathed deeply for a few moments in an effort to steady himself. It did not work.

"Well, I don't!' he said, as loudly as before. "He's up to something with Draco Malfoy right now, right under your nose, and you still-"

"We have discussed this, Harry," said Dumbledore, and now he sounded stern again. "I have told you my views."

"I'll bet you haven't even considered that Snape and Malfoy might decide to-"

"To what?" asked Dumbledore, his eyebrows raised. "What is it that you suspect them of doing, precisely?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Harry finally losing all sense of composure. "I don't know what the HELL they're going to do! Do you? Do you have ANY IDEA what Malfoy is planning? Do you have ANY IDEA about Voldemort's next move? Because _I _don't. I don't know ANYTHING! Nothing about what I'm supposed to do or how I'm supposed to do it! I didn't even know who was responsible for my parents' deaths until a few minutes ago-"

"It's not professor Snape you should be angry with―"

"SHOULDN'T I?" Harry bellowed. "No, actually, maybe you're right. Because he's not the only one who's been keeping secrets from me, is he? He's not the only one who seems to know more about my own bloody life than I do, is he? I bet you're keeping plenty of things all to yourself, aren't you, Professor? You spent the entirety of last year doing exactly that! Hell, I didn't even know there was a prophecy about me, until I found it, deep in the Department of Mysteries, after I had to break into the MINISTRY OF MAGIC! If you had just TOLD me about the prophecy, if you had just TOLD me about my connection with Voldemort, then maybe Sirius would be alive!"

"Harry!"

"SHUT UP!" Harry shouted back, the shock of his own outburst drowned out by his intense anger. "Don't you _dare _say that's not true, because it is! Every time _you_, or somebody else, keep something from me, I'm the one who pays for it! It's _me _who has to lose the people I love! It's MY FAMILY that has to be killed! IT'S NOT FAIR!"

"Enough!" Dumbledore bellowed. The feeling akin to a gust of wind rushed through the room, silencing Harry before he could utter another word. The office was left deathly still. Not even Fawkes dared to break the silence. "I understand that you are angry, Harry. I recognise that I have not told you all that I know, or perhaps all that you deserve to know, but I have never withheld anything from you to merely spite you. I care about you far too much to show you such cruelty."

Harry bristled, his fists balling up tightly. Refusing to react, Dumbledore continued.

"Every secret I have kept from you was for your own good, for the sake of your health, for the sake of your happiness, for the sake of your studies. It was always for your own good. I knew that if I told you about the prophecy from a young age, it would be robbing you of your childhood. It would be destroying what little security you had left. It would have changed you into something awful. I wanted you to have a life separated from the realities that you would soon have to face. I wanted you to feel like you could have a life outside of Voldemort, protected from prophecy or expectation. And if there was anything you truly needed to know, I told you."

Harry couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He couldn't quite fathom how the person responsible for his parents' deaths, for being raised as an orphan, unloved and abused, for his worrying lack of self-worth or confidence, was information that simply was not deemed his by rights. It felt like a betrayal on the most fundamental of levels. Harry trusted Dumbledore to tell him what he needed to know, to give him as much of a leg-up in this fight as he could, and yet, apparently, he didn't trust him with the most essential of truths. As if Harry were still but an irresponsible little child, who needed to be shielded from the horrors of the world.

Not that it protected him from Quirrel, or the Basilisk, or the Dementors, or the Triwizard Tournament, or Umbridge, or even the Half-Blood Prince. In fact, if what Harry had experienced was protection, he dreaded to think what Dumbledore's version of apathy was. Or maybe this was it. Perhaps he thought if he left Harry alone for a while, then he would _magically _turn into the chosen one, the hero of the Wizarding World. Well, safe to say that wasn't happening any time soon, not at this rate.

"This can't continue, professor," Harry said tersely. "You can't carry on keeping secrets from me anymore. I can't do this if you keep not telling me what I need to know. I know you wanted to shield me from the truth, from the fact that at some point, I was always going to have to fight Riddle, but now? Even after he came back? Even after the prophecy? That's not excusable. It only left me vulnerable. It made me into this… someone who's certainly not ready to kill any dark lord, let alone Riddle. You need to start trusting me, sir, because if not, then I might as well just walk up to Voldemort's front door and let him kill me."

He caught a glimpse of Dumbledore going stiff, the old Professor's gaze quickly averting his. Harry stared at him, dumbfounded, narrowing his eyes.

"Professor… You're not really going to do that, are you?"

To Harry's horror, Dumbledore remained silent.

The teen paled, realising that his worst fear had just been confirmed. The man who always believed in him, no matter what, had all but admitted that he expected Harry to die. Even Dumbledore thought he was going to lose. Worst of all, apparently he was planning on it.

"I guess that explains why you never bothered to train me," Harry growled. "Why waste time trying to give me a fair chance when I was always just going to die anyway? At least now I can pretend that it was all part of the plan!"

"Harry," the old man sighed, his eyes shining with a sudden rush of tears, "If I knew any other way, I would have taken it. I didn't know if I could save you, and I tried to find alternatives. I tried everything… I'm sorry, I have truly failed you…"

Harry stared at him, unable to fathom what was happening. There was no way in hell that Dumbledore was simply giving up. That was… Impossible, surely.

"There must be some way that I can survive, some secret weapon or- or weakness that we can use?" Harry hurriedly suggested. "You said it yourself, what about the power of love? What does that have to do with it? Why are you so sure that I'm going to die?"

"Because it is the only way," Dumbledore replied gravely, his head hung low. "It is imperative that Voldemort takes your life, not so that he may survive, but so that he doesn't."

Harry exhaled, somewhere between a sob and scoff, as he tried to decipher the headmaster's words.

"I don't understand," Harry began. "Why…?"

The truth came crashing down on him like a guillotine.

His Parseltongue. His scar. How it burned whenever he and Voldemort were near. How it connected their two minds. How it allowed the two of them to share abilities, memories - even emotions.

Dumbledore's very words, describing what Voldemort had done to him, how he had left a part of himself upon Harry when he was only a child, resurfaced in Harry's brain.

"Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?" Harry had said, all those years ago, unaware at just how appropriate those words really were. Utterly oblivious of just how true they would turn out to be. The blank, trained face of Professor Dumbledore, staring back at him in his memory, suddenly seemed all the more frightening.

"It certainly seems so," Dumbledore had replied. He knew, even back then, it seems. He knew all this time, and yet…

Harry suddenly felt very faint. His breathing began to draw less and less oxygen, and the corner of his vision began to fade. He knew what was happening, what was about to happen, and he hurriedly reached into his cloak, producing the bottle that Hermione had given him. He popped it open and swallowed about half, immediately feeling the tension in his muscles release.

Despite this, Harry toppled, leaning against the stone pillar as he slid to the floor. He curled up against the stone as his world came crashing down, everything he had ever known no seeming to matter anymore.

He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do.

The scent of lavender flowers found Harry's nose, and he began to cry. He would never have the family he always wanted. He would never wake up to a beautiful wife or gorgeous children. He would never own a house, have a job, eat packed lunches, cook dinner for the little ones, never grow up or grow old watching them become adults, never live to see grandchildren. He would never have any of that.

All because he was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and he wasn't allowed it.

There was only one more question left in Harry's head, amongst the grief and sadness and overwhelming feeling of loss, and so he spoke it.

"Who else knows?" Harry asked once his voice returned to him, his tone completely flat.

"I have not-" Dumbledore began, having stood in a bid to help him, but the old headmaster never finished.

"Who else did you tell?!" Harry exclaimed through gritted teeth, every syllable hitting Dumbledore like a swift punch. Harry knew that he wasn't acting very mature, nor would lashing out necessarily help. But he was angry, and he wanted Dumbledore to know it. He refused to let the headmaster worm his way out of giving him the truth.

To Harry's grim satisfaction, Dumbledore at least had the decency to look ashamed.

"Severus," he replied. "Only Severus."

Harry's eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched at the thought of that greasy-haired man-child being afforded more trust than he ever did - to his own secrets, no less. To his own future.

"And when did you plan on telling _me_?" Harry asked with all the warmth of ice.

The silence that followed spoke far more than words ever could. Harry's shaking fist clenched his brain fighting between panic and rage despite the smothering effects of the calming draught - with anger winning the fight, easily.

"Let me guess," Harry drawled in a corrosive tone, glaring holes into the headmaster's eyes, "_I didn't need to know._"

For once, Dumbledore was without a response. The old, wizened wizard merely stood behind his desk, staring down at Harry with something akin to pity, or was it shame? Harry didn't much care. He couldn't bring himself to care about much anymore. He struggled to see the point.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally asked. "Why wait?"

Dumbledore fidgeted, sighing heavily, shaking his head in a way that reminded Harry just how old Dumbledore really was.

"You have to realise, Harry," he began, his voice hoarse and rough, barely compose, "I was never sure. I never… I couldn't believe that Tom would have done something so… so monstrous. Using a living being as a Horcrux, let alone a child, is an abomination, an act so vile that it has never been attempted, not even by the darkest of wizards. I don't think even Tom meant to do it."

"And there's no way we can destroy it without me dying?"

Dumbledore shook his head.

"Not that I know of."

Harry's gaze fell to the floor tiles. The fight had left him.

"Then I guess that's it," he shrugged morosely. "I have to die."

"No, Harry," Dumbledore replied, "not necessarily."

Harry couldn't help but scoff.

"What else can I do?" he asked. "You said it yourself. If I don't die, then neither does Riddle. There's no other way."

"It seems like it," Dumbledore said cryptically, "And, until 16 years ago, Harry, there was no way to survive the killing curse. And yet you did so."

"Not on my own, I didn't," Harry noted. "That was my mum, not me."

"Exactly, Harry, exactly," Dumbledore exclaimed quietly, bringing himself around and kneeling in front of the teen. "Your mother's love for you, her child, is the reason you still live to this day. A love so powerful and so pure that it could bring about the impossible."

For a moment, Dumbledore faltered, glancing down guiltily at Harry's feet.

"I didn't tell you, Harry, because I wanted you to know what it was like to love, and to be loved, to allow yourself to open up to people, to let others into your heart in a way that Riddle never could. And knowing that you had a death sentence over your head would have made that all the more difficult. Even now, I suspect you're thinking of shutting out the people closest to you, for their own protection. Because you care about them. You love them all so much that it hurts. But you must let them in, Harry. You must always hold on to hope, and to the people who love you."

"What hope?" Harry asked, trying to calm his wobbling lip. "What can I possibly hope for now? I'm going to die."

Dumbledore looked at him, a sad smile adorning his face.

"As am I, Harry. Before the end of this year, I should think."

The old man produced his blackened, withered hand for Harry to inspect. It was looking worse now that it ever had before as if any moment it would fall off. Dumbledore pulled back the sleeve of his robe, revealing thin, black lines running up through the veins on his wrist, creeping up his forearm like spider legs.

"I have managed to keep it contained, with the help of Severus, but I do not have long. It is a miracle I have survived as long as I have."

Harry stared at it, suddenly feeling a wave of pity for his old mentor, almost wishing that he hadn't been as severe as he had, but knowing all the same that he was entitled to his anger.

"It is why I am unconcerned with Draco's mission. His endeavour is merely a punishment, not for him, but for his father. Voldemort knows that, even now, in my condition, a teenage boy is in no way my equal. He will either succeed or be expected to die trying, which is undoubtedly the result that Riddle is expecting. Keeping Draco here, in Hogwarts, is for his own protection. And I know, Harry, he has done little to deserve it, but I cannot allow another soul to be lost to Tom's machinations if they can be saved."

"You think Malfoy is worth saving?" Harry asked. "Over Katie? Over Ron?"

"I did not make this decision lightly, Harry. Contrary to how I may appear, I am hardly the type to make plans on a limb. You must understand, Harry, that Malfoy is as much a victim of Riddle as anyone else."

"I doubt that," Harry argued. "He took Riddle's side, agreed to try and kill you. He made his choice."

"Did he?" Dumbledore said pointedly. "If Voldemort came to your front door, asking for you undying allegiance, I doubt many people would have the courage to oppose him, let alone a child raised on the extreme values of a staunch blood-purist. Draco has done many deplorable things of his own volition, but I struggle to believe that this was entirely his choice."

Harry considered it for a moment, still not entirely convinced. Of course, Malfoy had been his tormenter for many years now, so he certainly wasn't willing to give Malfoy the benefit of the doubt. But he had to face the facts. Malfoy was a woefully inept choice for an assassin, and Harry refused to delude himself into thinking that Riddle couldn't have known that. This was undoubtedly a way for Riddle to toy with Draco, to set him up to fail spectacularly.

"Then what happens?" Harry asked. "You're not going to let Draco kill you, surely, sir?"

"No," Dumbledore replied. "He will not be the one to kill me."

Harry's eyes widened.

"Then who will?"

"Severus," Dumbledore explained, continuing before Harry could protest, "Under my orders, Harry. Killing me will both save Draco from a terrible choice and allow Severus to gain favour from Tom."

"But, then, Draco will have failed."

Dumbledore nodded.

"But Tom has contingencies," he explained. "He will turn to Severus to finish the job, thereby voiding Draco's oath."

Harry sat rigid, staring at the old man in front of him, the image of his cod, dead body lying at the feet of Snape sending waves of anger through him.

"Do not be dismayed for my sake, Harry," Dumbledore said, "This is a kindness. If Severus weren't to kill me, the death that I would be bound to is far worse. The curse that was placed upon me is a dark and terrible one, designed to consume its victim in the most torturous way imaginable. Even now, captive in my hand, it is agonising. It would not be a quick death. It will be slow and meticulous, keeping me alive long enough so that I can feel every nerve in my body fail, long enough to render me a living corpse, begging for death. In contrast, the killing curse is almost merciful."

Merciful. The word echoed throughout Harry's head, the idea that imminent death could be any kind of mercy. What kind of death awaited him, Harry thought, now that his fate lead to Voldemort. Would Voldemort allow him a merciful death? Or would he drag it out, forcing Harry to experience a long, painful end to his life?

A sense of existential terror gripped Harry's body as he realised that his future was all but certain. He was going to have to face Voldemort, alone, with not even Dumbledore around to help him.

He was going to lose.

"Sir," Harry trembled, "without you, I don't stand a chance. How am I supposed to do this on my own?"

"You won't," Dumbledore insisted, staring the younger man in the eye. "No matter how dire, no matter how the dark the days that are to come, you won't ever be alone. That I promise. You are right, in my efforts to protect you, I've left you woefully unprepared. No longer. I am going to take measures to make sure the Order will still be around and active after I am gone."

"But what about Hogwarts?" Harry asked, his thoughts flitting to the students, the ones most vulnerable without Dumbledore's protection.

The old headmaster smiled a small, melancholy smile that made his eyes twinkle once again.

"Snape will take my place as headmaster, and he will help you in any way he can. He will protect the students under my express orders." Harry was about to protest, to question whether Snape could possibly be the one to hold that responsibility, but Dumbledore interrupted him. "He may very well have the capacity for spite - his behaviour towards you is proof of that - but it is either him or someone far worse. Severus is not a cruel, nor vindictive man, not to the degree of the rest of Tom's inner circle. I promise you, Harry, he is more than ready for the position, and he will not filling it lightly.

"As for you, Harry, I intend to accelerate your training with me to every other day. There is a lot I have yet to share with you, and it is about time I did. I have been far too complacent in my aid as of late. No more. It is time that I commit to arming you for the coming fight."

* * *

Stray beams of moonlight, seeping through the stained glass windows, crested Harry's vision as he slowly walked through the hallways towards the Gryffindor common room. His footsteps echoed heavily, creating a hollow thudding noise that matched the one slowly thumping away inside his head. The one Harry couldn't help but listen to as he trudged his way back to bed after a long, long evening. It terrified him to know that one day that noise, the steady sound of his heart pumping away, would cease forever. To know that he was going to die sooner, rather than later.

Death had always been a part of his life - it had taken his parents away from him at a very young age, and the Dursleys had no qualms at reminding him of that - but the concept of his own death had yet to truly sink in. Whenever Harry cast his mind to the future, it always went the same way. Graduation; a job; a wife; a house; a child or two; a pet; Sunday dinners; washing machines; TVs; little school clothes; grey hairs; reunions; retirement; drifting away peacefully. The idea of having none of it made Harry feel so very empty. How much he had taken for granted, how much was denied of him, for merely being born.

How on Earth was he going to tell the others? Because he would have to tell them eventually. His friends needed to know - deserved to know - that his time was limited. How was he going to tell Hermione? Or Ron? Or Remus? What words could possibly describe how grateful he was to each of them, of all they had done for him.

For helping him believe he had any future at all.

Harry came to the portrait hole too soon. He would rather have stayed out in the hallway, find a lonely corner and disappear. Anything to avoid what he knew he had to do.

He spoke the password, the entrance swung open, and he stepped inside.

Harry had barely taken a few steps when a familiar voice met his ears.

"There you are."

It was Hermione, sitting vigilantly on the sofa, right where she always was. The common room was empty, not a single person around except for her, as was usual for the time of night. She must have stayed up to wait for him. The thought made him want to cry.

She stood to greet him, and Harry stepped out of the archway, into the light of the fire.

"I was wondering when you…"

He must have looked a wreck because the words died in her throat, and her cheery, bright demeanour had shifted to wide-eyed shock.

It was all Harry could do to meet Hermione's gaze, his eyes barely seeing anymore. She looked so worried, her eyes darting across his face for any clues to his current state.

"What happened?" she soon asked, guiding him back to the sofa, so that he was seated right beside her. So close that he could almost hear her heart beating away. The sound of life.

She was here. She was alive. She deserved to know.

And so he began, telling her all he knew about the Horcruxes; about how Voldemort created several soul anchors to help keep him alive; about how one of them caused the mess in the second year and had possessed Ginny; about how if even one were still intact, Voldemort would retain his immortality.

All the while, Hermione remained silent, her composure slowly losing its colour as she realised the gravity the situation, how impossible of a task that lay before Harry's feet.

It took all the strength in Harry's soul to look Hermione in the eye, to tell her what - or whom - the last Horcrux was, and watch her heart break in two.

Her beautiful brown eyes were flooded with tears, her shoulders hunched together, her fingers reaching out to hold onto him.

By that point, he too was crying, and he too was reaching out, bring her in closer for a desperate embrace. She gripped him tight enough so that he couldn't escape if he wanted to, as if any moment she feared he would crumble into dust.

Her tortured sobs rang loud in his ear, in contrast to Harry's silent ones. He was too tired to scream - he had shouted plenty enough at Dumbledore earlier in the day.

Occasionally Hermione's wails would lapse into barely literate words. Often along the lines of "No," or, "Not fair," or, "Why?"

Harry could only hold her, gently reminding her by his very presence that he was still alive, that they still had time.

Time - Harry was reminded by every tick of the clock and every beat of their hearts - that was slowly running out.


	6. Alone on the Water

CHAPTER VI: Alone on the Water

A few days later, Harry found himself sitting in the Great Hall, staring at his breakfast. Hermione was beside him on the bench, coaxing him to at least take a bite out of his toast. No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much his stomach twisted inside his body, screaming at him to eat, Harry couldn't muster the effort.

He was too distracted with everything else around him. Far too caught up in wishing he was anyone else other than Harry Potter.

He tried to focus on his breakfast. He tried to ignore the noise of people talking, eating, laughing or complaining amongst themselves. The sounds of people with everything waiting for them. People who had no idea just what kind of burden had been placed on his shoulders.

Suffice to say having the knowledge of his own impending death hanging over his head was doing nothing for his mental health. If Harry had been in a bad place before, it was nothing compared to where he was now.

He felt like a drifter, barely conscious. Nothing seemed to faze him any more. Not even the allure of Dumbledore's limitless knowledge, his multitude of magic and wisdom, could bring him out off his constant stupor. Harry knew that he should feel things, that he should either be afraid, or sad or happy or anxious or angry. Still, for some reason, he could never conjure up the energy to actually feel them.

All he felt nowadays was guilt.

Guilt for not being enough, for not being the hero that everyone needed him to be. For not knowing how to help Hermione, who had become more clingy than ever, barely letting him out of her sight, and only crying when she thought he couldn't see her. And every time, he noticed, and we wished he could just disappear from her life. Anything that would stop her from suffering too.

The worst part of it was he knew that this was his fault. Hermione was crying over him, and Harry could do nothing to comfort her. He couldn't lie to her, tell her that everything would be okay, that he had any chance of survival because she knew, just as much as he did, that was a lie.

Hermione was suffering, and it was because of him. For some reason, that fact hurt more than his eventual death ever could.

Harry's thoughts were interrupted when he saw a flash of red in his peripheral vision. He looked up, hoping to see the one person he wanted to talk to, but instead, it was Ron, taking the seat in front of him. Harry froze. He had forgotten all about Ron.

What the hell was he going to tell him? How much could he tell him? Dumbledore had told him to keep his knowledge of the Horcruxes to the people he trusted completely. Harry knew that Ron absolutely fell into that category, it was whether he could bear to tell him the entire truth.

He gave Harry a quick nod, frowning when he didn't respond as Ron had hoped.

"You okay?" the redhead asked.

Harry tried his best smile, nodding quickly.

"Yeah," he replied, "of course."

Even to his ears, it sounded unconvincing, something that Ron obviously noticed. For a moment, he looked as if he were about to say something, maybe ask what was wrong or if he could help. Then, for a shadow of a moment, his eyes flickered to Hermione, still sitting by Harry's side. Whatever he was going to say was forgotten, and he began filling up his plate with toast.

Whatever just happened, Harry was glad for it. If it meant more time to think about what he going to say, he wasn't going to complain.

Harry turned, noticing none other than the one person he had meaning to talk to rising from her seat and making her way towards the entrance of the hall. Harry turned to Hermione, who had also noticed the youngest Weasley. Without a word, she nodded, and Harry stood, pacing after the redhead before she could leave.

"Ginny," he called a few steps behind her. She turned and greeted him with a small smile.

"Oh, hello, Harry," she said. "It's been a while."

"Yeah," Harry replied, recounting just how long it had actually been since he'd talked to her, face to face. The last time he could remember meeting her face-to-face was Quidditch practise, and that had been two weeks ago, at least. It had been a while, yet another regret to add onto the pile. "Listen, Ginny, we need to talk."

Her face fell from hopeful curiosity to burgeoning anxiety in the blink of an eye.

"Okay," she said hesitantly.

Harry gestured to the door, walking past her pointedly, leading her out of the hall. They needed somewhere private for this, she deserved it. It wouldn't do to be in front fo the rest of school when the conversation inevitably turned serious. He guided her to a secluded corner in a forgone hallway until he was sure they were alone.

"Ginny, listen …" Harry said, very quietly. "I've wanted something to happen between us for so long, and I think you have too. But now, I can't let that happen."

She said, with an oddly twisted smile, "It's for some stupid, noble reason, isn't it?"

Harry paused, wondering how to respond. He didn't think what he was doing was stupid, and he hardly wanted to think of himself as noble. It just what needed to be done, for her own sake.

"Ginny, we just can't... I've got things to do alone now."

She rolled her eyes, obviously irritated, and Harry could relate all too well. She wanted this as little as he did, but they had no choice.

"Voldemort uses people his enemies are close to," Harry noted. "He's already used you as bait once, and that was just because you're my best friend's sister. Think how much danger you'll be in if we… He'll know, he'll find out. He'll try and get to me through you."

"What if I don't care?" said Ginny fiercely.

"I care," said Harry. "How do you think I'd feel if this was your funeral, or Ron's, or Hermione's... and it was my fault …"

She looked away from him,

"I never really gave up on you," she said. "Not really. I always hoped ... Hermione told me to get on with life, maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit around you, because I never used to be able to talk if you were in the room, remember? And she thought you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more - myself."

Harry stared past her, thinking back to Hermione.

"Smart girl, that Hermione," said Harry, trying to smile. "I just wish I'd asked you sooner, Ginny. We could've had ages ... months ... years maybe …"

"But you've been too busy saving the wizarding world," said Ginny, half-laughing. "Well ... I can't say I'm surprised. I knew this would happen in the end. I knew you wouldn't be happy unless you were hunting Voldemort. Maybe that's why I like you so much."

Whatever Harry was going to say died in his throat. Ginny's words echoed inside his head, over and over again. He recalled them, analysing them as if he hadn't quite heard her correctly.

As if she hadn't just said that hunting Voldemort was what made him happy.

It felt like someone had thrown a rock in a pane of glass. The image of Ginny, their normal relationship, shattered into a thousand pieces before his very eyes, and Harry felt emptier than ever before.

Even if he had asked her out; even if Voldemort hadn't been resurrected; even if he was coming back for his Seventh Year and something came about between them; it never would have been normal. He still would have been the Boy-Who-Lived, even to her.

Not even in the safety and mundanity of a relationship could Harry escape his own public image. Of all the people he thought could see past that, Ginny was high up on that list, perhaps the highest. But no. It turned out the parts of him she liked so much were exactly what had tried so hard to divorce himself from. In the end, she was just like anyone else. Someone who thought that he enjoyed fighting Voldemort. Who thought that he took any joy out of risking his life, year after year, trying desperately to protect the people closest to him and losing them anyway. As if of this were his choice.

Harry noticed as he brought himself down from his musings that Ginny was staring at him. She was smiling a small, innocent smile, unaware of what her words had just caused. For some reason, looking at her now, she appeared very different in his mind. The once blazing, set determination in her gaze now felt piercing, judgmental, as if she were looking right past him into the eyes of someone else. As if she were constructing something else than the image in front of, imagining what she wanted to see. It made Harry feel naked, and certainly not in a good way. It was as if she was expecting him to stand up at any moment and conjure a majestic light-show, or raise the castle from its foundations with the swish of his wand.

But Harry could do none of these things, he never could, and he never tried to. He never once advertised himself as anything more than just Harry. Yet, whenever anyone looked at him, just Harry was the last thing they saw. It broke his heart to know now that Ginny was among that number.

It was only as he felt Ginny's hand on his arm, and he came to, that he realised he hadn't spoken for a long while. She raised her eyebrows, tilting her head slightly, prompting him to reply.

Harry couldn't find the words.

Actually, he managed a few. Only enough to say goodbye, to politely part ways with her, leaving Ginny behind as he trudged back to the Great Hall, confused as to what she had said.

Harry didn't speak much for the rest of the day. Only to answer direct questions, or to tell Hermione the usual - that he was fine and she needn't worry. Of course, the truth was that he was the furthest thing from fine. In fact, he felt like he had just lost a leg or an eye. The future he might have had, the one he imagined, taken solace in, was built on a lie. That perfect image - that promising, safe, mundane life - was nothing but an illusion after all.

He should have known. Ginny had always been in awe of in some way or another. From the moment he first met her, she was shy, jittery, refusing to speak to or even look at him for the longest time. She was enamoured with him, or rather the idea of him, the hero that she wanted to believe in. And he was foolish enough to think that would all be erased, that she had magically been able to see past that.

It wasn't her fault, it wasn't like he ever did much to dispel that image of himself. He saved her life when she was only eleven-years-old, that was always bound to leave an impression. His fault, yet again.

It was always his fault.

The day was over before Harry even knew it, and as his thoughts came back to the present, he found himself back in the common room, with Hermione sitting by his side. Just as she'd been for the entirety of that day, right by his side.

He needed to be away from her, just for a little bit. He needed to get whatever it was that was bubbling inside him out before it swallowed him whole. And the last thing he wanted was for Hermione to be there when it happened. Not that it would be bad. It was perfectly natural, he dismissed. He just didn't need her worrying about him, thinking that he was handling it worse than he was.

He was fine. It was all normal. Absolutely normal.

Harry excused himself from Hermione's side, telling her he had to take a shower, that he'd be back in no time, and not to worry about him. Hermione was surprisingly calm when she conceded, telling him that if he ever needed her, all he had to do was shout.

The next thing he knew, he was in the boys' bathroom, his clothes bunched up in the corner, standing underneath a running showerhead. And wishing he had never left.

Harry felt awful. Truly awful, like a burning fist had been clenched around his chest. He couldn't tell if it was the water from the shower that was blurring his vision or if it was his own tears. Either way, he felt like a wreck, and the warm water wasn't helping matters.

He stepped out from underneath the shower, wrapping himself in a towel and stepping up to a nearby mirror. He turned on the cold tap, pooling a hand of water and throwing it into his face. He exhaled slowly, glancing up into his reflection.

He looked as bad as he felt. His eyes were red, darkened by a lack of sleep. His hair was soaking head, dripping down his face in dark, long tendrils wrapping around his face and neck, constricting against his neck, choking the life out fo him as his vision began to darken-

Harry choked in a breath, trying to steady himself for the side of the sink. He glanced down, his hands were grasping the porcelain so hard that his hands were turning pale. A deathly pale, thin and sickly, devoid of life of love or mercy, eyes glowing blood red, staring into his with murderous intent. He was going to die, he was-

Harry slipped, falling to the floor as his fingers lost their grip. He crashed the floor, flopping like a corpse on the cold, wet tiles. Harry tried to stand, only for his legs to give way beneath him. He scanned the room, finding his clothes in a pile by the benches.

A glistening vial of blue elixir taunted him, so near and yet further than Harry could ever dread. He had to make it. He had to get that potion.

He reached forward, trying to reach the edge of the sink, using his towel as leverage as he rose to meet his reflection once again.

His once raw, grew eyes were now a blood-red, a deep, rotten hole piercing through like wounds. His scar was burning, bleeding black, viscous liquid down his forehead. Harry screamed, reaching his hands up, trying to scrape it away, only for it to remain impervious to his fingers. From beneath his fingers, he saw blood painted across his head, soaking him in deep crimson. Still, he kept on scratching away, trying to rip apart the Horcrux the beneath his scar, crying out when the red of his eyes became blinding.

Suddenly, Harry felt a pair of hands wrap around him, pulling him into the corner. He panicked, lashing out, trying to push away at whoever was clutching at him, dragging him away. Harry was shoved into the corner, his arms trapped by his sides. He shouted out, calling for help, masking whatever the stranger was saying.

A moment later, Harry felt the lip of a bottle pressed against his lips, a cold liquid pure against his closed mouth. He recognised the taste immediately. It was the calming draught. Harry opened his mouth, drinking the elixir down, clutching at the vial in the stranger's hands.

The effect was instantaneous. Harry's body relaxed, the pounding in his head slowed to a steady rhythm. And, with the adrenaline leaving his body, the pain began to set in. The scratched against his forehead began to throb and burn. His thighs and elbow bruised, and, looking down at his hands, he saw that he had acquired several deep cuts in the palm of his hands. Harry glanced over to the sink, only to see that it had been smashed, the floor now covered with bits of porcelain lining floor.

Looking back, he realised how foolish he had been, how obvious it was that it had all been just a hallucination, conjured in a fit of mania. But it had felt so real like he was trapped in some horrific moment. The fear was real, at least.

Harry turned back to his saviour, expecting to see a head of bushy brown hair and chocolate eyes.

But he didn't, because the person sitting in front of him, staring at him expectantly, wasn't Hermione.

"Ron."

"Hey, bud," the ginger-haired boy smiled.

"How'd you know?"

"I just had a hunch," he shrugged. "Ginny, she came to me after breakfast, told me what you'd said to her. I knew you'd be pretty shaken after something so…"

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"Look," Harry began to confess, "Ron, I-"

"Hermione told me."

Harry stopped, staring at his best male friend, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"She told me everything," Ron continued, "the night we broke up. Well, I say 'broke up', but we weren't really a thing at the time, more just trying it out but it was- doesn't matter. The point is I know what you're going through."

Harry scrunched his eye, leaning into hands, trying not to cry.

"I never wanted you to worry, either of you."

"I know," Ron nodded, patting him on the back, "'cause if we worry it becomes real. Don't get me wrong, Harry, I don't like worrying about you, I don't wanna have to see my friend like this, but it's better than feeling like I can't help you."

Harry began to laugh morosely as something broke within him. Ron narrowed his eyes, clearly taken aback.

"What?"

"You can't help me, Ron," Harry choked. "No one can."

"Bollocks," Ron replied. "There are those, what d'ya call 'em, therapist people - those mind healers in the muggle world, they can-"

"No," Harry insisted, "they… I… Ron, I'm going to die."

Ron shook his head.

"No, you're not, Harry."

"Yes, yes, I am because I have to. Because I always going to have to, it was always going to happen."

"Look, mate, if this is about the prophecy, we've been over this."

"No, it's not just that." Harry glanced around the room, towards the door over Ron's shoulder. "Are we alone?"

"Pretty much," Ron confirmed. "No one's coming in. Why?"

"Voldemort," Harry began, and Ron resisted the urge to flinch, "he has these things, they're called Horcruxes. It's something he can use to store a piece of his soul."

"His soul?" Ron repeated carefully. "What, like…?"

"A piece of himself," Harry explained, "hidden away. As long as those Horcruxes survive, so can he."

Ron inhaled a shaky breath.

"Is that how he survived the first time."

Harry nodded.

"Yes."

Ron suddenly looked very anxious, deflating, his eyes were wide open, staring into the middle distance.

"Bloody hell," he breathed. "And, what, you have to find them all?"

"And destroy them. The diary, the one that Ginny was writing in, the one that possessed her…"

Ron paled.

"You're not saying…" Harry nodded gravely, and Ron shivered. "I feel sick."

"It gets worse."

"What can be worse than that?"

Harry looked at him, a deep frown set into his face.

"He made more than one."

"More than one?!" Ron exclaimed. "How many did he make?"

Harry shook his head.

"I don't know. We're not sure, but the estimate is seven."

"Seven?" Ron hissed. "He split his soul seven times? How the hell is he still alive?"

"I told you, the Horcruxes keep him from dying."

Ron sat back against the bench, his mouth wide open.

"Merlin…" He stared at the bathroom tiles, trying to digest what Harry had just said. Eventually, he sat up, nodding to himself. "So that's it. We have to find them all and destroy them. That's what we're gonna do. Right?"

Harry didn't answer. Ron turned, spotting his friend staring at the opposite wall, his head hanging on his shoulder, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Harry?"

"The last Horcrux…" Harry croaked, his hands trembling. "I know what it is, Ron. Dumbledore told me. It's how I've been able to talk to snakes. How I've been able to see his thoughts. Why I have those nightmares."

Ron stared at him, about to ask what it all meant, why he suddenly looked so...

"No…" Ron gasped as he finally put the pieces together. He leaned over, trying to look Harry in the eye. "Harry…"

The raven-haired boy remained silent, and Ron's worst fears were confirmed.

Ron stood from his seat, pacing the bathroom back and forth, his brain on fire. Harry merely sat and watched as his friend slowly lost his composure. His breathing turned into loud, heavy grunts, like a train reaching full-steam. His shoulders hunched, his fists clenched and - without warning - Ron threw his fist at the nearest wall, shattering the tiles.

"BASTARD!" he screamed with apocalyptic fury, his face glowing red, his eyes wild. He turned in Harry's direction, marching towards him. "Well, come on, how do we get it out?"

"We can't," Harry replied softly, to which Ron shook his head.

"No, no, we can," Ron doubled-down. "Of course we can. Why can't we? We… Hermione, she'll know. We'll go down to the library, and we'll…"

"Already tried that," Harry explained, too tired to raise his voice above a whisper. "We found nothing. Ron, there's nothing we can do."

Ron glared, pointing his shaking finger in Harry's face.

"Don't say that. Don't… don't you dare…" But something in Ron's eyes told Harry even he knew that it was a losing fight. "What are we supposed to do, then? Just let you die? Is that what we're doing?"

"Nothing else we can do."

"WHY THE BLOODY HELL NOT?"

At this point, Ron had tears streaming down his face, unashamedly mourning for his friends as he tried to regain his composure. Eventually, after several minutes of barely concealed sobs and troubled murmurs, Ron fell onto the bench beside Harry, feeling utterly drained.

"How long have you known?" Ron asked, wiping his eyes.

"Only a few days, Ron," Harry replied. "Barely even half a week."

Ron nodded, constructing a timeline in his head.

"Why didn't you…" he began, but the question fell away. "Have you told Hermione?"

"Yeah. She was the first person I told. You're the second."

"No wonder she looks awful," Ron breathed, rubbing his face with his hand. "Merlin, I feel awful. For you. Just can't catch a break, can you?"

"I guess not," Harry chuckled mirthlessly. "I was going to tell you, Ron. I was. I just never knew how to bring it up."

"No, I don't blame you. I don't blame you at all. You gonna tell anyone else?"

"I'm not sure," Harry sighed. "If Voldemort finds out we know about the Horcruxes, he'll move them, hide them away, protect them. If he does that we'll never get them. And if we don't get them all…"

"Yeah, I know," Ron nodded grimly. "Well, don't you go offing yourself anytime soon, alright? We need you, Harry. Hermione, especially."

Harry shook his head.

"What Hermione needs is to get far away from me. You too."

"Well, that's not happening in a million years."

"Ron-"

"It's not happening, Harry," Ron said firmly. "We had our chance to leave, and we're still here. And if you don't like it, tough. Hermione would agree with me."

"So would Sirius."

"Harry…" Ron tried to argue, but Harry stopped him.

"You think I don't want you guys around?" he said, his voice trembling. "Of course I do. You're my family. The only family I have left. And that's why I can't let you stay with me. So many people close to me have died, or suffered, and if that happened to you or Hermione… hell, it's already happened! I've nearly got both of you killed, so many times. Do you think I'd want to carry on if I lost you too? Who else would I have?"

"And that's exactly why we're sticking with you," Ron replied. "I don't care what anyone says. We're gonna find a way to get this Horcrux out of your head, and we're gonna find the rest of them and destroy them."

"We don't even know if we can, Ron."

"Then we're gonna keep trying," he said resolutely. "That's what we always do. We don't give up, right? That's what the Harry I know would do. And he's still in there, somewhere, I know he is. We need that Harry, more now than ever."

Harry looked at him.

"You think I can be that person?"

Ron tried his best smile, patting him on the shoulder.

"Honestly, I think you never stopped. You just needed some help realising it. You are gonna hunt down these Horcruxes, right?"

Harry shrugged.

"That was the plan."

"Yeah," Ron grinned, "he's definitely still in there. Come on, let's dry you off. I think the others want a shower."

Ron reached over, helping Harry to his feet, revealing the pooling river of blood running off of his frayed knuckles.

"Your hand…" Harry gasped. Ron looked at it, tilted his fist from side to side.

"Yeah, it does hurt a bit," he remarked nonchalantly. "Probably shouldn't have punched that wall, now that I think about it."

Harry emitted something between a laugh and a scoff.

"Yeah, maybe," Harry nodded. "Still, nice to see you care."

"You're my brother, Harry," Ron replied as he picked up Harry's trousers and offered them to him. "Of course I care."

The two friends returned to the common room shortly afterwards, walking in on an expectant Hermione. She was stroking a closed book that was resting in her lap, biting her bottom lip in the way that she did when she thought intensely about something.

The moment she noticed them, Hermione hurried over.

"What happened? What took you so long?"

Harry shrugged, offering his lacerated hand.

"Long shower."

Hermione's eyes widened, producing her wand and waving stover his hand.

"Oh god," she gasped as the wounds disappeared, "are you alright?"

Harry glanced to Ron, who was standing by his side, a small grin on his lips.

"I am now."

"Did you manage to get to your calming draught?" Hermione asked, bringing him into a tight hug.

"He did," Ron replied, summoning her attention towards him. "I know about the… you-know-whats. I know Harry's one of them. I want to stay. I want to help in any way I can."

Hermione gazed him, sending him a melancholy smile as she tightened her hug around Harry's shoulders.

"Thank you."

The three of them stood together for a while. Harry and Hermione wrapped in each other's arms and Ron by their side, smiling at them, someone of his own in his mind.

There the three friends remained, united once again, relishing in what little time they had left. And planning, for a steadily approaching future, and for the fight that lay before them. The battle that all three of them would inevitably face.

Together.


	7. Come Together Over Me

CHAPTER VII: Come Together Over Me

Nothing quite exemplified the sudden shift in Harry's priorities than this year's exams. In that, they came and went, and he hardly noticed. No longer did he see them as an anxiety-inducing gauntlet, a potentially insurmountable barrier between him and a successful career. Now, it was just sitting in a room for two and a half hours, writing everything he could remember, regardless of whether his answers were correct. Harry was sure he'd get a ribbing from Hermione later about the whole ordeal. So, at least he could look forward to that.

The time away from studying was hardly wasted, though. Indeed, Harry believed that the activities that had replaced it held far higher value than his N.E.W.T.s could ever hope to possess. The Headmaster himself had given special permission to him, Hermione and Ron for extended, extra-curricular studies (or, as Ron put it, Saving-the-World class) in which the three of them, aided by Dumbledore, spoke extensively of their plans for the next few months. Everything for battle training, strategy, politics and the Order were discussed.

Every shred of intelligence that Dumbledore had gathered about the Horcruxes was shared - every clue he had found, every lead he had followed - all piled into daily sessions in the evenings and mornings. They spent all free periods tutoring with the Headmaster, which meant that revising was quietly shunted into the background. Ron barely minded, sharing Harry's disenfranchisement with the trivial nature of a grading system in terms of measuring one's abilities or worth (though not in that many words). Hermione, however, struggled slightly with the shift in focus, citing the sanctity of her perfect grade average.

Of course, in typical Hermione fashion, she decided that training for the Horcrux hunt and revising for intensive exams at the same time with minimal breaks or sleep was entirely possible - that is, until Harry locked her in the Room of Requirement with only a bed for company. When he opened the doors five minutes later, Hermione was already fast asleep, and a lesson about the virtues of rest had been learned.

So, it was with little confidence that Harry entered the Great Hall on the day of his first exam. He had briefly glimpsed his textbooks and notes before entering (offering an honest, if feeble attempt at preparation). Still, he was under no illusion that he was mentally equipped for the coming task. So, Harry could only imagine his surprise when, as he closed the final page of the final exam, he felt a sense of anti-climax befall him.

They were… easy.

Or rather, not easy per se, but more simple. Without the build-up, anxiety, or stakes, all that was left were questions on a sheet of paper and time enough to answer them. All the nervous energy that might have led him to over-think, or second guess himself, or forget basic theory trying to remember everything else, simply didn't exist. Maybe his newly-found nihilism had its uses after all.

So, the first year of N.E.W.T.s came to an end with all the ceremony of a bill. Maybe not all hope was lost in this world after all.

Hermione seemed to be sharing in his delight, though maybe not for the same reasons as he had in mind.

"What did you think about that last page?" he heard her ask, trying and failing to mask her enjoyment of the exam season. "Honestly, it was almost juvenile. I know the Ministry is desperate to recruit new Aurors, but still, they could have implemented _some_ challenge."

Harry turned to her and blinked.

"Last page?"

"You know, page 10? The one with the question on Centaurs?"

His eyes widened to the size of saucers.

"There was a page _10_?"

Hermione's eyes widened, mirroring his own, and her face suddenly became pale. Her mouth opened, imitating a fish on dry land. She was about to launch into a hysterical tirade when she noticed the corners of Harry's lips turning upwards. Her shocked expression turned into heated chagrin, and Harry grinned like a cat that had caught the canary.

"Harry!" she admonished, smacking his elbow.

"Gotcha," he laughed.

"That's _not _funny."

"It is, Miss Granger." He tilted his head, eyeing her. "You know it is."

"No, it's not," she grumbled, turning up her nose, refusing to look at him any longer.

"I can see you smiling," she heard from her side.

"You see nothing."

Harry merely laughed, threading his arm through hers.

He didn't mean to get Hermione riled up so often. It just so happened that he immensely enjoyed when she was. It wasn't anger, exactly - Harry hated seeing Hermione angry, that meant she had been hurt in some way. This was something else. It was fun, cheeky, challenging, like a tennis match or a duel. It never devolved into an argument, but there was something there, just beneath the surface — a spark threatening to erupt. Into what, Harry didn't know, but he enjoyed skirting the edge, daring it to reveal itself.

"Besides, it's not as if these exams matter to me at the moment," he reasoned. "If all goes to plan… I won't be here next year."

"No, but they might be useful later on," she replied, finally deciding that he deserved to be looked at again. "After Hogwarts, when you want to get a job."

"Yeah," nodded half-heartedly, "after Hogwarts…"

Hermione glanced at him, noticing how his eyes had fallen to the cracks on the floor.

"Because you are going to survive this, Harry," she urged, gripping his hand. "You are."

Harry looked unconvinced but nodded anyway.

"If you say so."

Hermione frowned, quickly deciding to change the subject before the mood became unsalvageable.

"What do you want to do, Harry?" she asked, as the pair emerged from the walls of the castle, out into the open air. "When you graduate?"

"I really don't know…" He took a moment to think, his brow creasing. "I hadn't thought that far."

"You could become an Auror," Hermione offered, to which Harry scoffed.

"I didn't get the grades for an Auror."

Hermione scoffed right back.

"You've fought Voldemort and lived to tell the tale. Several times," she reminded him. "I'm sure that makes you more than qualified."

To that, he shrugged, conceding if only to stop talking. He lead them over to an empty patch of grass, taking in the way the sun crested over the tops of the mountains on the far side of the Black Lake.

"Honestly," he murmured after a long, contemplative pause, "I'm not sure if I even want to be an Auror."

Hermione glanced at him, frowning in confusion.

"What do you mean? I thought-"

"I used to," he clarified, "but now that I think about it… I'm not sure I want to chase dark wizards for the rest of my life. I know it sounds selfish, but-"

"Harry," she smiled, patting his hand, "it's not selfish to want a bit of peace. Not after everything you've done. If that is what you want."

Harry's gaze fell into the middle distance, and a faint hint of a smile lit up on his face. Behind his eyes, Hermione could see the cogs turning, dreaming up something beautiful. His face adopted a peaceful expression, unlike anything she had seen before; as if he were in a deep sleep.

"I've always wanted to be a father," he admitted, his cheeks reddening slightly as the words came tumbling out.

Hermione paused. The image of it, Harry and fatherhood, came together so very swiftly. She couldn't help picturing an older Harry - taller, wiser, beaming - sitting beside a couple of young children, holding them tight in a warm embrace.

"You'd be a good father," she told him and meant every word.

Harry's countenance shifted as he was suddenly, deeply moved.

"Thank you, Hermione," he croaked. "That means a lot to me."

"Though," Hermione added quickly, "it does take two."

Harry let out a bark of laughter.

"I am aware."

"Anyone in mind?" she probed. "I think Ginny's single."

"I don't Ginny's an option anymore," he cringed.

"How come? You never did tell me what happened with her."

Harry's face darkened, his grip on her arm tightening in something akin to frustration.

"She said that she could only picture me being happy… chasing Voldemort."

Hermione gasped.

"She _didn't_!"

"She did," Harry asserted, his tone nearly as scandalised as her own.

Hermione stared at him, then just past his shoulder. She shook her head, her hair flailing around her face like a mane.

"That little cow!"

Harry jumped at her sudden outburst.

"Christ, Hermione!"

"Well, she is!" she doubled-down. "You know she came to me for advice, with how to make you notice her. I thought… I thought she'd be good for you."

"She did mention that." Harry decided as he stroked her arm, that leading the conversation towards the secluded shore of the lake was the best course of action. "Your advice worked, by the way. I'm starting to think you know more about me than I do."

Hermione smiled dangerously, gazing out onto the water's edge.

"I'm thorough."

"I'm sure you are."

"Well, evidently, I'm not thorough enough." She sighed. "I'm sorry, Harry, I had no idea she was like that. I thought she genuinely liked you for you."

"I think in some ways she did," he pondered. "She just didn't know who I was, not as well as she thought she did."

"It's an easy mistake to make." She continued before he could protest. "Harry, no matter what you think of yourself, you are a hero. Everyone knows that."

"But I don't want to be."

"Who does? Everyone wants to be famous, everyone wants to be strong, but few people want to be a hero."

Harry blinked, his eyebrows disappearing behind his fringe.

"You should have been a philosopher," he meagrely offered.

Hermione grinned, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Who says I'm not?"

"Touché."

The evening air bristled against them, prompting Hermione to move closer, inserting herself into Harry's side where it was warmest. If Harry minded her proximity, he didn't show it, choosing to remain focused on the landscape. Hermione closed her eyes, listening to his breathing, and she smiled when, eventually, his arm found her back, unconsciously beckoning her closer still.

Moments like these - still, peaceful, precious - were becoming all the rarer nowadays. It was a good day if Harry could wake up and go to bed without a panic attack in between. She wasn't sure if Harry was getting better or becoming accustomed to the prospect of constant paranoia. For the sake of her sanity, she liked to presume the latter. If it were up to her, his whole life would be made up of these moments, away from the war, the Ministry, maybe even Hogwarts. If that was what it took to keep him safe…

It was a treacherous thought. An exciting one. One that she could never hope to follow; that Harry would never go down, not while the Wizarding World needed his help. Not that it deserved it.

The resentment threatened to consume her, and so Hermione promptly flushed it from her head.

"That's enough sidetracking," she chirped, leaning back to address Harry properly. "Tell me, now that Ginny's out of the picture, who else is on your radar?"

Harry responded with a dumbfounded expression.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?"

"What? I can gossip," Hermione argued. "Besides, I have a vested interest."

"Oh, really?"

"Mmhmm," she nodded. "Now spill!"

"I don't know, Hermione," Harry sighed. "I've been a bit busy at the moment."

"You're a teenage boy, Harry. You _always _have enough time for that."

Harry smiled, lowering his head in an attempt to hide his blush.

"Alright, I might have been checking out a few girls."

"Ooh!" Hermione sang, shuffling closer with a mischievous grin. Harry's blush blossomed into a crimson glow.

"Shut up."

"Aww, he's blushing!" Hermione cooed. "Come on then; before curfew would be nice."

"Susan Bones," Harry replied flippantly.

"Susan? But you've hardly shared two words with her…" Hermione stopped and sighed wearily. "You just like her for her chest, don't you?"

Harry shrugged.

"How could I not?"

"You know, there's more to a woman than…" Hermione gestured wildly around her chest area, "_that_!"

"I know, I know. It just so happens that Susan has more of…" Harry copied her gestures, "_that_ than any other girl in the castle."

"What did I expect?"

"What _did_ you expect?"

"I don't know - something with more substance."

"You want substance? Alright, Luna's nice."

"Luna?" Hermione scoffed which drew a stony stare from Harry.

"What's wrong with Luna?"

"Nothing," Hermione quickly amended, "Nothing. She's just a bit…"

"If you say 'loony' we're going to have a problem."

"No, of course not! She's just… not quite there."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that, because I think she's only got eyes for Neville."

"You think so?"

"I don't know. Call it instinct."

"I think Hannah already called the shots on that one."

"Hannah? Really?"

"You haven't noticed? She stares at him like how Ron stares at a ham sandwich."

Harry exploded into peals of laughter, and Hermione swiftly followed.

"Speaking of which," Harry managed to eke out once he had finally calmed down, "_who_ is this mysterious girl that Ron seems so obsessed with nowadays?"

"I don't know, Harry."

"Can I get that in writing?" Harry smirked, receiving a swift slap on the arm.

"Prat. It could be anyone. I'm not even sure she exists."

"Can you imagine if it was someone like Daphne Greengrass?"

"Why? Would you be jealous?"

"Not really. I don't know that much about her."

"She's pretty."

"Yeah," Harry nodded, "but there's more to a relationship than looks."

Hermione hummed, turning to the horizon and gazing at it down her upturned nose.

"Except with Susan Bones, evidently," she said primly.

"Okay," Harry chuckled, "you pressured me into that answer. Besides, I was half-joking anyway."

"Then give me an honest answer!"

"Luna was an honest answer!"

Hermione sighed wearily, rolling her eyes at him affectionately.

"Honestly, it's like pulling teeth with you, Harry."

"Well, my options are quite limited, Hermione."

"How?"

"Well… well, look at me!" Harry argued, gesturing to himself. "I'm not exactly a looker, am I?"

"Yes, you are, Harry."

"I look a twig with skin."

"That's called being lean. Trust me, I've seen thin, and you're not it."

"I'm not that handsome, either."

"Tell that to the dozens of girls who stare at you behind your back."

"That's only because-"

"No, it's not. We've all seen you in Quidditch trousers, Harry."

She stopped when she noticed Harry's absent expression. He seemed to have shut down, only providing a weak, "Oh…" as a reaction. Other than, he remained silent, staring off into space.

"Hello?" she called, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "Earth to Harry?"

He blinked, shaking his head slightly.

"Sorry, just… spaced out."

She nudged him, right in the ribs, causing him to cry out as she poked his funny bone.

"Don't let it go to your head, mister," she warned, her smile defusing what little authority she tried to push.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he grinned. Then he nudged her in return. "How about you, Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"Who are you interested in?"

Hermione paused, her brow furrowing as if he had just said something very improper.

"Now, I really don't think-"

"Come on!" Harry exclaimed.

"Harry," she begged.

"You can't press me on this for so long and not expect me to ask the same question," he argued. "There's got to be someone."

"Well…" Her sentence faded away, lost in the midst of deep contemplation. Harry could only stare as her gaze hardened. Her bottom lip became trapped in between her teeth, and she began chewing away as her musings overtook her. Eventually, she decided upon something, eyeing him anxiously. "Well, there might be one…"

But then she stopped, her mouth snapping shut. She froze as if suddenly remembering where she was.

"Hermione?" Harry called softly. She didn't answer.

Without another word, Hermione lay her head on his shoulder, looking out onto the lake. Harry, having learned not to question Hermione long ago, didn't dispute it. As confused as he might be - and boy was he confused - he knew not to prod. If she didn't want him to know, then it wasn't his place to pry it out of her. No matter how much he desired the answer.

Hermione spoke barely a word for the rest of their time together, but Harry could swear that her grip on his arm was even tighter than it was before. At least Harry could take solace in the irony that, despite having a female as his best friend for more than a few years now, the female species remained a complete mystery to him.

Unbeknownst to him, Hermione took great solace in that fact as well.

* * *

If someone had told Harry that today's session of Saving-the-World class had recruited a new member, he might have been excited. Then he found out who exactly that new member was.

Dumbledore told Harry extensively about the nature of his relationship with Snape, that of a double agent and spymaster, loyal to the cause of the light. Harry, however, struggled to see it that way. He knew that eventually, he would have to engage with the man on some level if they were to win the coming war, but Snape… Snape was the last person Harry ever wanted to work with, especially after finding out the truth.

Because Severus Snape wasn't just Harry's least favourite teacher anymore, or an everyday nuisance - a vile, rude, unbearable pain that tormented Harry's curriculum. He was so much more than that now.

Severus Snape was the man whose choices lead to the death of his parents, along with ten long years of neglect and abuse. It was his fault that Harry had to live in a dingy cupboard, without love or comfort or so much as a hug for the longest time. It was because of him that Harry would never be able to hug his mum and dad, never listen to them say that they loved him, or ever share in the happiness that so many other children took for granted. Because of Snape, Harry's childhood had been irrevocably ruined, and he was expected to just supposed to _work _with him now? To let it all go without so much as an _apology_? To just ignore all the pain and torment that this… this _bastard _had caused him and move on, just like that?

If Harry were a lesser man, he might have hexed the greasy Potions Master where he stood. He might have finally tested out some of the new tricks that Dumbledore had taught, maybe add in some of Snape's own that he created under the guise of the Half-Blood Prince.

But now wasn't the time. They had a war to plan, and frankly, he had already spent far too much time wallowing in self-pity. All the energy Harry once had for this sort of thing had passed long ago. Now he was just tired - too tired to waste time being angry at a man who didn't deserve the effort. Snape was pathetic, yes, but very soon he was going to be the most valuable ally they had.

As Headmaster of Hogwarts, Snape would have access to the one item they needed the most: the sword of Gryffindor. Dumbledore explained that, due to its exposure to Basilisk venom (a memory that earned an anxious glare from Hermione), it now held the ability to destroy Horcruxes, harnessing the corrosive power of the venom to its advantage. The sooner they were able to secure the Founder's weapon, the better, and with Snape acting as its guard, it would hopefully be in their hands before long. Dumbledore had initially planned to leave it to them in his will, but complications with the sword's status as a relic meant that it wasn't his to give.

_'His will.'_

Harry still had trouble processing the idea that Dumbledore would soon no longer be around to help them, to lend them support or advice when they needed it. Despite all that the older man had done - forcing him to stay with the Dursleys; refusing to explain or adequately prepare him for the oncoming war; the lies and deception at every turn - Harry couldn't help the grief that he knew was creeping upon him. Even after everything Albus had done, he was still Harry's mentor.

Which meant Harry needed to focus on these final, vital few lessons.

So far, he thought he was doing well. Dumbledore had only shown him a few of his many tricks, but he had picked them all up very quickly. Perhaps the most exciting new technique was silent casting, something that came to him almost naturally. As Dumbledore explained, the act of announcing a spell was more of a focusing technique than a requirement. Maybe it was something to do with how often he found himself arguing with the voices in his head, internalising his problems rather than letting them out, meant that his inner voice was strong enough to focus his magic. Harry decided not to let that particular fact reach Hermione's ears.

Besides that, Dumbledore's lessons had been far different than what he expected. Contrary to what Harry had imagined, his syllabus didn't contain a multitude of powerful, unknown spells that defied the laws of magic. No, if anything the spells Dumbledore chose to teach him were far more elementary. It was how they were used that surprised him the most. Such as using the sticking charm to walk up walls, or maximising the Lumos charm to blind opponents or combining the Notice-Me-Not charm with quick bursts of transfiguration, changing the terrain right under their feet. Simple, effective spells used in ways that no one could expect. It some ways it made sense. If one could block the killing curse with something as mundane as a levitated obstacle, then why bother trying to learn an overpowered shield spell that would just leave you tired and vulnerable afterwards?

And that was the principle that ran throughout most of Harry's training: easy-to-learn spells implemented in unique ways. It was so simple; it was genius.

Beyond these sessions, Dumbledore had also been filling Harry in on the specifics of Magical politics, mapping out the ways that Tom had probably already begun to seize power in the Ministry. Harry was no fan of politics before, but now, after learning more about the nature of power than he ever wanted to know, he could safely say he despised the topic. Dumbledore, amusingly, shared his exact sentiments.

It got to a point where he knew more about the Ministry than Ron did - but, of course, Hermione still ran circles around him in that department. With this new knowledge, it allowed them to explore opportunities that they never thought possible. It also exposed just how much they hadn't thought of. For example, all the talk of venturing around the country helped them realise that they had no plan for how they were going to do it.

Dumbledore suggested they set up a permanent base of operations, somewhere that could act as a safe house. Harry presumed that they would use 12 Grimmauld Place, however with Dumbledore soon to be dead, and the Fidelus Charm being tied to him as Secret-Keeper, that meant that the building wasn't going to be secure for very long. (Once a Secret-Keeper dies, everyone else who was shared the location become a Secret-Keeper, meaning that everyone in the Order - including Mundungus Fletcher - would be able to share the house's location, Hermione explained off-handedly.) They needed somewhere new, somewhere only they knew about.

Hermione propositioned the use of an expanded tent, a home that they could take with them, however, she conceded that it wasn't the answer for a permanent base. Maybe for away missions, but nothing more substantial than that. Regardless, none of them wanted to live in a tent for months on end. Besides that, a tent was much harder to equip and defend, not like a proper building, so not only would they be down to the bare essentials but also they would be more vulnerable to a surprise attack. Not only that, but they would be ultimately cut off from Hogwarts, and their one ally who had any chance of retaining power in the new regime that was rapidly approaching.

So, they needed a place that was abandoned, rarely visited (if at all), isolated, yet close and connected to Hogwarts. Somewhere in Hogsmeade seemed to be the obvious answer.

Dumbledore proposed the Hog's Head, explaining that he knew the owner very well and could easily pull a few strings to ensure them a hiding spot. However, that produced its own problems. Hogsmeade certainly wasn't airtight. If the Death Eaters got word and decided to scour the place, they wouldn't have many houses to search. That and the frequent visitors that lodged in the establishment meant that the old hotel was too dangerous to be considered a permanent base.

Ron suggested they pitch up in the recently abandoned Zonko's in the heart of Hogsmeade, but that idea also had flaws. Being in the heart of the village meant that coming and going with any sort of secrecy was hardly going to be easy. Worse, if they made any noise, suspicions from neighbours would expose them before long.

That was when Harry suggested the Shrieking Shack. The smile that he earned from Hermione had him grinning for the rest of the evening.

It wasn't long before Dumbledore sent a troop of house-elves to renovate the building, and Harry could relax, knowing they had a base of operations for the following year. The simple prospect of having somewhere safe, secure and secret they could retreat to if it all went to hell, made the future look at least a little brighter.

If only Harry's present had the gift of such clarity.

* * *

Hermione was a mystery at the best of times, but nowadays, she had adopted a distant quality. Whenever she thought he wasn't looking, she'd spend her time staring at him, as if breaking him down in her head. As soon as he turned her way, she would try to pretend she had been looking elsewhere, but the distinct flick of her bushy hair told all. It was a phenomenon that was becoming more and more common. Harry almost thought that he had something on his cheek the first few times - maybe a stray glob of jam from breakfast - but every time he checked, he found nothing.

It took far longer than it should have for Harry to consider that it was _him_ she was interested in. But why? Was she judging him? Did she have her doubts about him? About the mission?

_No_, Harry scolded himself. If Hermione had any doubts, she wouldn't be here with him, planning every step of their journey. It wasn't like her to only get cold feet now. She had assured him, _promised _him, that she was with him no matter what. Harry knew it was only fair, after everything that she had done for him, that he trusted Hermione's word.

What could be troubling her, then? Because it was evident that something was on her mind. Maybe it was this person that she liked, the one she refused to tell him about. The one that, for some reason, Harry felt a great deal of disdain for, without even knowing who they were.

They probably deserved it, Harry reasoned, although he was never entirely certain why.

In any case, he needed help figuring it out. Maybe there something obvious that he had missed. Maybe there was something in the grapevine that had passed him by. He hoped not. If he couldn't pick up on mild playground gossip, what hope was he going to be on the run, surviving day to day on nothing but whispers?

Harry wanted to be happy for Hermione; he really did. He knew he should be pleased that she was branching out, making new friends… but something about this whole ordeal didn't sit well with him. What if it was someone who wanted to hurt her? What if they were trying to get to him through her?

Neither seemed likely, but then again, what was plausible anymore? Chance and coincidence seemed to love him.

The thought preyed on Harry for at least a couple of days before he felt desperate enough to seek help. If he needed to see the obvious, there was one person he could certainly get an answer out of.

"Ron?" Harry asked one evening from the other side of his old chessboard. Ron moved his knight, placing it deliberately in its new square, and looked up.

"Yeah?"

"I think Hermione likes someone."

Instead of answering, the redhead merely stared at him, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Really?" Ron murmured with just a hint of sarcasm. Harry frowned, moving his pawn forward a square.

"You know who it is?"

Ron guffawed, moving his rook to take the pawn. He stopped when he noticed that Harry wasn't laughing along with him, and his face dropped.

"Seriously?" he asked as if Harry had forgotten the colour of an orange. "Oh, come on, Harry. It's obvious."

"_Is _it?" Harry argued. Ron sighed.

"You really don't know?" he asked rhetorically, looking at him like a hunter would a wounded deer.

Harry shook his head.

"No."

The redhead slumped in his seat, staring at the ceiling in disbelief.

"And people think _I'm _the dim one. Honestly!"

"Look," Harry urged, "just tell me who it is!"

"Well," Ron replied, still gazing up at the ceiling, "it's someone she spends a lot of time with."

"She hasn't been spending time with _anyone_; she's been too busy helping me."

"Oh, _really_?" he pondered aloud.

"Yes! Unless she's been meeting someone in her free time…"

"I'd say she has," Ron grinned. Harry glanced at him.

"Really?"

"Yep."

Ron sat up, rubbing his hands together.

"Okay," he began, as Harry leaned forward as not to miss a word, "you know him. You know him very well. And yes, she likes him. Proper likes him. Even when we were sort-of going out, she liked him. The two of them are inseparable."

"Okay," Harry replied, nodding as he mentally noted it all down, "but who is he?"

Ron was about to answer, when a thought struck him, like a joke he had suddenly remembered. He looked at Harry then to the chessboard, then back again.

"You know what?" he said, a smirk adorning his freckled face. "I think _you _can figure this one out."

"What?" Harry protested. "But-"

"And while you do that," he continued, unabashed by Harry's sputtering, "I'm going to bed."

Ron toppled the king piece with a flick of his finger, letting it roll into the centre of the board. Then he stood and began to head for the stairs to the dormitories. He stopped and turned, just before disappearing.

"Oh, and when you do figure it out," he called, suddenly sobering himself, gazing at his friend intensely, "don't hurt her. Because I will kill you if you do."

It was as if Ron was staring right through him. Harry knew, just from the way his eyes glistened in the firelight, that he was deadly serious. All he could do was nod hurriedly in response. Ron smiled.

"Alright," he said cheerily, "have fun."

With that, Ron ascended the steps, leaving Harry to simmer further in his confusion, still no closer to an answer.

And the worst part was that he couldn't ask Hermione for help.

* * *

The doors to the Room of Requirement slowly moulded into shape. Light flooded into the dusty old chamber, and the silhouette of Draco Malfoy stepped inside. The door sunk away as quietly as it had materialised, and the teenager was alone.

Immediately, his eyes went past the piles of forgotten chairs, tables, parchments, drawers and countless other antiques, landing on the one item that mattered the most. The Vanishing Cabinet, standing in all of its glory. His ace in the hole; his ticket into the good graces of Lord Voldemort himself. Dumbledore had never suspected a thing. No one did.

This old, unkept room was perhaps Draco's most significant discovery, holding many treasures that he had only ever dreamed of. There were artefacts in this room that held secrets beyond even his understanding. Months of hiding in this space with his Blood Traitors and Mudbloods and Potter didn't know half of what the room was capable of. He had no idea what Draco was planning.

Draco knew that Potter was spying on him; the Gryffindor was hardly subtle, hardly the master of stealth and subterfuge that Draco was. It was but a small obstacle in his plans. Of course, the previous attempts at assassinating the Headmaster had gone awry, one of them by Potter's meddling hand, but that was neither here nor there.

The cabinet was all Draco needed. It would suit his needs nicely. An entire year's worth of hard work and intensive maintenance, all coming together ever-so-nicely. Very soon, Hogwarts would be without its precious, muggle-loving Headmaster. Finally, Draco thought, he would take his place alongside his father in Voldemort's inner circle.

At long last, he would feel the pride of his family, of the most powerful families in the Wizarding World. They will all know what the name of Malfoy truly meant.

Draco waved his wand over the cabinet - back to front, side to side, inside and out. Not a crack, nor a stain. The cabinet was in pristine condition, exactly how he left it not two weeks ago. And the enchantments were still very much…

Gone.

Draco thoughts came crashing to a halt. He waved his wand again.

Nothing. Not a spark, nor a blink.

He paled. He checked again — still nought. And once more, with shaking hands and rapidly shallowing breath. It all read the same.

The cabinet was empty, in more ways than one. It was dead. Nothing more than an ordinary cabinet.

"No," Draco whispered faintly, grabbing a nearby teacup and throwing it into the cabinet. He slammed the door, waited a few seconds, and opened. The fragmented pieces lay there, taunting him, right where they were but moments ago. Draco slammed the door again, opened it, and was met with the same result. He kicked the cabinet, as hard as he could.

It scarcely even wobbled.

Draco cried for the first time in a long, long time. The cruel, red eyes of the Dark Lord stared at him in his mind's eye, chilling him to the bone just as they did when he first met the Dark Lord in person. Dread clasped his body in a tight fist and refused to let go. His perfect, platinum hair was now dishevelled from the cold sweat that swiftly permeated his skin.

He stumbled out of the Room of Requirement, far less composed than when he entered. Without a moment to lose, Draco began walking hurriedly down the hallway, towards the only man he could trust.

And Harry Potter - perched behind a nearby pillar, having seen everything - waited until Draco had passed far beyond the seventh-floor corridor, before quickly making his way towards Dumbledore's office.


	8. Seems It Had To Come

CHAPTER VIII: Seems It Had To Come

"He's going to do something, sir; I know it! I can feel it!"

"Then let it come; now focus, Harry! Focus!"

Harry rolled just in time to dodge Dumbledore's leg-locking jinx, the sparks just clipping the edge of his robes. He immediately fired back with a counter, turning the floor into jelly beneath the headmaster's feet. The old man swivelled with inhuman speed, dancing just out of the area of effect.

"You have a great deal of power, my boy, but your patience is lacking. You must learn to temper your thoughts, reduce your focus to the here and now."

"Be here, in every second - I know, professor."

"Then show me."

Eager to do just that, Harry cast a Lumos bright enough to block out the sun. He threw the orb of light into the centre of the room, allowing it to explode in a flash of white. Wasting no time, Harry immediately charmed the underside of his shoes. Instantly he felt his strides become harder as his soles stuck to the floor.

He ran to the far wall, and straight up it, the extra stickiness of his shoes allowing him - with some difficulty - to run across the wall. He was already sideways by the time overcharged Lumos wore off, but Dumbledore was waiting for him. A quick 'Finite', aimed squarely as Harry's feet, sent the boy tumbling to the floor.

"A fine trick, Harry," Dumbledore applauded, "But not one to rely on, especially more than once."

"It did pretty well last time," Harry groaned. "I almost got you."

"Indeed, but it wasn't enough last time. It won't be enough today."

The headmaster raised his wand to cast his net spell, but Harry had beaten him to it.

"Imago Geminae!"

Harry sprinted from his spot on the floor to the headmaster's right. To Dumbledore's left, a copy of Harry ran in a perfect mirror image. The two Harry's began casting spell after spell, lighting up the room in unison. Unable to quickly discern which of the spell-casters was the real one, resorting to dodge the oncoming attack. Harry grinned as he realised that his trick had worked.

That triumph was short-lived, however. The magic required to power the clone was wearing on him quickly. The spell-fire subsided for a few seconds as Harry caught his breath, and the headmaster took his opportunity. Dumbledore quickly glanced at the clone across the room, before his eyes immediately turned to Harry – the _real _Harry - and resumed their duel in earnest. Realising the ruse was up, Harry hurriedly dispelled the mirror image.

"Excellent spell-casting, Harry, but next time you use that spell, be aware of your clothes."

"My clothes?"

The teenager quickly glanced down at his robes and realised his mistake, how Dumbledore was so quick to recognise which of them was the fake. His Gryffindor badge, planted over his heart on the left side. It must have been on the clone's opposite breast, on the wrong side. Of course, Dumbledore of all people would be the first to notice that kind of detail.

A disarming spell just missed Harry's wand, spurring the teenager back into action. Scrambling behind one of the Room of Requirement's great pillars, he gave himself but moments to think. Duelling Dumbledore to a standstill, as the headmaster had prescribed, had turned out to be a Herculean task. The old man was quick, craft and ruthless when on the other side of a wand. There was almost nothing Harry could do to stop him.

_Almost_, a voice that sounded remarkably like Hermione repeated in his head. _Think! What do you have that he doesn't?_

Youth, Harry answered himself. He may be smarter, but I'm faster and more agile. But how does that help me? I can't run from his spells.

_But you can defend_, the Hermione-like voice replied, _if only for a little while_.

It won't be enough, he argued… to himself. It won't ever be enough. It's not like I can shack up behind a shield and wait for him to tire himself out.

He tried to recall every spell that Dumbledore had taught him, all the small, useful tips and tricks he had been given over the past few weeks and came up blank. Amongst the spells flashing by his shoulder and the frantic panic of trying to outsmart a master-duellist, Harry's brain was quickly overwhelming itself.

_Don't try and remember them all, _Hermione's voice sounded, _try and remember two. Just two._

Two spells. He could think of two measly spells. Confringo. Wingadium Leviosa. Easy enough. Now all he had to do was find a way to turn them into an answer.

Dumbledore, he was crafty, and fast and powerful, but every wizard needed to be able to see. He had already used Lumos the headmaster would know that trick already. Harry glanced around the room, trying to find a solution, the sounds of Dumbledore's spells colliding against the pillar, sending pulverised dust everywhe-

And just like that, Harry had his plan.

Peaking around the corning for only a moment, Harry lined up his wand with a far pillar and cast the blasting curse. The stone erupted into dust, caking the floor with rubble. The teen immediately rolled out of his cover, placing Dumbledore between him and shattered stone. A quick Wingardium and the dust was already on the move.

The cloud consumed Dumbledore's face, causing him to splutter and cough, and it smothered his eyes and mouth. For only a few milliseconds, he was defenceless.

Harry didn't hesitate for even a moment.

"Expelliarmus!"

The spell collided with Dumbledore's wand, sending it arcing into the air. With the skill of a trained seeker, Harry caught it in his free hand, holding it high like a trophy. He had done it. He had bested Albus Dumbledore.

If only in a practise duel, but still, a victory was a victory.

Quickly bringing himself back down to Earth, Harry hurried over the headmaster's side.

"Are you alright, sir?" he asked, quickly cast a cleaning chair on the aged headmaster's face, clearing away the rubble. The old man took a deep breath, blinking several times over.

"Yes, I should think so." He stood tall, his eyes searching for his wand. Once he found it, sitting in between Harry's fingers, his breath hitched ever so slightly. "I see. Very well."

He held out his outstretched hand, and Harry placed the wand in the headmaster's palm. The elder wizard grasped his fingers around the handle as if waiting for something to happen. He sighed, seemingly satisfied, and fixed Harry with a strange look.

"You are probably eager for news about Master Malfoy."

Harry blinked, straightening up.

"Yes, sir. I am."

"He has been to consult Professor Snape. Severus told me he was extremely anxious, lamenting about a Vanishing Cabinet on the seventh floor. It seems you and Miss Granger were absolutely correct in your assumptions."

The teen couldn't help the small warm glow that sparked in his chest at the headmaster's affirmations. He couldn't wait to tell Hermione the good news, to thank her profusely for helping him.

"Did he mention his next move?" Harry asked.

"Severus wasn't exactly clear. He is unsure if Draco even has a 'next move'. The boy is running out of options and fast."

"What can I do to help?"

"If you wish to do something useful," the headmaster continued, "then keep an eye on him. Severus and I only have so much time to spend watching over his whereabouts. If you are truly worried that Draco is planning to act on his mission, then that is the best thing you can do."

"Keep an eye on him," Harry repeated. "Got it. Thank you, sir."

The door to the Room of Requirement slid open, and the duelling room faded away, resorting an empty stone chamber. Harry bowed, as was tradition, and made to leave.

"And, Harry," Dumbledore added, stopping the boy in his tracks, "I highly suggest _not _intervening, or confronting the young Malfoy. We wouldn't want to exacerbate his desperation."

Harry nodded.

"Duly noted, Headmaster," he lied.

* * *

Draco Malfoy entered the Great Hall at seven o'clock in the morning and sat there until eight. He didn't take any food, nor did he pour himself any water. He simply sat and stared at his empty plate until it was time to leave. He interacted with no one, he said nothing. This was his schedule, every day for the past three days. And every time, Harry was there to see it, silently observing him from afar.

He had hoped that watching Malfoy for long enough would provide a clue as to what he was planning, now that the vanishing cabinet had been taken out of commission. It didn't.

_Come on, _Harry urged, watching his target from the other side of the Great Hall. _Do something. Anything._

How Harry yearned to go over there and pry the truth out of the blond ponce himself. But alas he had been instructed to wait, to observe for now, and only intervene if absolutely necessary. And so, he did. He obediently put his desire for justice aside, keeping his distance, as he was doing now. At least he had company, with Hermione sitting across from him and Ron beside him to keep him company. He could hardly complain. Well, actually, he could, because…

"Three days," Harry murmured, "and he's done _nothing_."

"Has he been to see Professor Snape?" Hermione asked as she worked her way through a bowl of cereal.

Harry nodded.

"He has indeed."

"And?"

"He knows he's done for," Harry recounted, remembering Snape's words in the headmaster's office. "He knows that he's running out of time. So, why hasn't he _done _anything? What could he _possibly _be waiting for?"

"Maybe he's waiting for Dumbledore to die? From his hand?"

"No, he wouldn't know about the curse."

"Maybe Professor Snape told him?"

"And risk it leaking back to Voldemort?"

Hermione frowned, remembering that Dumbledore's mere presence in Hogwarts was the only reason Voldemort had yet to make a move on the school. If any information came out about the headmaster's declining health, it would risk making the castle a target, along with every man, woman and child within.

"No, I see your point," she conceded. She went back to chewing her bottom lip ponderously.

"Besides," Harry continued, "if he simply waits for Dumbledore to die, he won't have fulfilled his vow. He needs to act, so why the hell isn't he?"

Hermione took the chance to peer over her shoulder, following Harry's gaze towards the Slytherin table. Her eyes caught platinum blonde and beneath it a solemn, ragged face, almost the same colour as his hair.

"He looks terrified," Hermione remarked, with the slightest hint of something resembling pity. She was certainly not wrong, however.

It looked like Draco hadn't slept in days, and yet there was still a nervous energy about him that refused to let him rest. He was a wreck, a fossil of his former, cockier self. A far cry from the Draco Malfoy that Harry knew.

"Serves him right," Ron's voice bluntly interjected. Their attention was torn away from Malfoy, Harry and Hermione glanced at their friend in surprise. Ron stared right back them. "Don't give me those looks. He's taken the Dark Mark. You said so yourself, Harry."

"He didn't take it willingly," Harry tried to point out as Hermione went back to observing the Slytherin in question.

"As far as you know."

A soft bark from above told him of Hedwig's arrival. The snowy white owl swooped down, landing elegantly beside his plate, a letter in her beak. Harry stroked the soft feathers on the back of her neck, taking the blank envelope and tearing it open. From the corner of his eye, he felt his owl staring a hole into him, and he obediently offered her a rash of bacon. Seemingly satisfied, the owl gobbled up the treat.

Tipping the contents of the letter onto the table, Harry was surprised to see a small, folded note fall onto his plate. He hesitantly unfolded it, relaxing when he saw the familiar scrawl of the headmaster's handwriting.

"What is it?" he heard Ron ask through a piece of toast.

"A time," Harry answered. Ten o'clock, to be precise. "I think Dumbledore has news."

"What do you think it's about?"

"Considering my next training day is tomorrow, something urgent, I think."

"Do you think it's about the… you-know-what's?" Hermione asked. Harry looked up at her, noticing how her hand was now gently stroking Hedwig's snowy feather. He couldn't quite describe the feeling of seeing someone like Hermione pay such kind attention to his familiar. Still, it was a warm, exciting one. He shook it off, repeating her question in his head.

"It could very well be." Harry stabbed a piece of scrambled egg lazily. "Not sure what I'm going to do if it is, though."

"Well," Ron, "it can't be worse than the bloody chamber of secrets, can it?"

"I've learned the hard way not to underestimate Riddle," Harry shrugged. "How's our target, by the way?"

Hermione began to lean around, casually gazing at each of the houses, before coming to Slytherin.

"Okay, don't panic," Hermione whispered, swivelling back towards them, "but he's looking our way." Harry and Ron both began to lean around her to get a better view, but Hermione's glare stopped them in their tracks. "Don't both look at once."

"He knows we've been staring, Hermione," Ron waved her off.

"Forgive me for at least _trying _to follow Professor Dumbledore's advice."

"Eh, Al's been wrong before."

Harry was about to agree before he replayed Ron's words in his head. He turned to the redhead by his side, his face morphing into a confused expression.

"'_Al'_?"

Ron nodded as if it were obvious.

"Albus."

"Why are you calling him 'Al'?" Hermione asked.

"Well, I thought since we're working with him…" Ron nodded again, gesturing his hand as if to present his finding. "Al."

"That's not an answer."

"I think that explains it perfectly," Ron dismissed, crossing his arms.

"Why 'Al'?" Harry asked. "Why not at least call him 'Albus'?"

"Al rolls off the tongue better," Ron explained.

"Like vomit," Hermione scoffed.

"What else are you going to do for your best bud, Al?" Harry teased. "Name your kid after him?"

"It's better than '_Professor Dumbledore' _over here," he retorted, pointing this thumb in Hermione's direction.

"What? He _is _a professor," she insisted. "It's just a fact."

"It wastes time," Ron argued. "Imagine we're in a critical battle scenario. What would you rather have to shout out, 'Watch out, Professor Dumbledore!' or 'Watch out, Al!'"

"Why would _you _be telling _Dumbledore _to watch out?" Harry asked. "He's one of the best duellists in the world."

"That's not the point, and you know it."

"Boys!" Hermione hissed, ceasing their spat. "Can you please pay attention. You're meant to be keeping an eye on Malfoy."

This time it was Ron's turn to scoff.

"Come on, Hermione. It's only been, what, twenty seconds? It's not like he'll have up left in twenty se- oh, bollocks, he's gone."

Harry's head shot up.

"Wha-?" he gaped, his eyes quickly returning to their target. Malfoy's seat was empty. His eyes scoured the rest of the Great Hall for a blonde head, but the Slytherin was nowhere to be seen. "When did he leave?"

"I don't know," Ron said, equally as alarmed, "he just…"

"Useless," Hermione sighed, holding her head in her hands. "Both of you."

"We have to find him," Harry said resolutely, vaulting from his seat. "Come on."

He stormed out of the great hall, Hermione and Ron close on his tail. The trio emerged from the giant doorway, into the crowded hallways of the castle. Harry scanned the many faces in front of him, his eyes jumping from person to person. He felt an elbow dig into his side. He turned, only to see Hermione pointing down the opposite side of the hall. His eyes focused just in time to see a flash of blond rush past the corner.

Threading through the crowd, Harry raced after him.

"He can't have gone far," he said to himself.

"Unless he ran," Hermione offered.

"Or apparated," Ron added, to which Hermione predictably scoffed.

"You can't apparate inside Hogwarts, Ronald."

"Where does it say that?"

"Hogwarts: A His-"

"Hogwarts: A History, of course," Ron finished. "There's probably the cure for Dragon Pox in that bloody book, but no one's ever read far enough to find it."

"Well, I have, and it's not in there."

Ron gaped sarcastically_._

"_Is it not?"_

"Both of you be quiet!" Harry hissed, ending their argument. "Right now!"

The pair had the decency to at least look sorry.

They followed the labyrinthine passages of the school, trying to trace Draco's steps. Eventually, however, the trail ran cold. The Slytherin had seemingly disappeared off the face of the Earth. Any chance they had of catching him now was minimal. If he had the marauders map, then maybe, but he had left it in his case up in the dormitories.

"He's gone," Harry growled, stalking across the tiles. "He could be anywhere by now."

"We really shouldn't be doing this," he heard Hermione lament.

"Tell me something new, Hermione."

He was about to head off once again when he felt a small but firm hand and grab his arm.

"Harry, listen to me," Hermione insisted. "We should go."

"It's too late for that now, Hermione," Harry argued, staring her down.

"No, it's not," Hermione retorted, staring right back at him. "He doesn't know we know, not yet."

"He knows someone's on to him."

"But not _us_. If Draco realises that it's us that's after him, he'll obviously figure that Dumbledore knows too. And when he realises that, who knows what he'll do!"

"Not if I can convince him otherwise."

"You think you can change his mind?" Hermione gaped. "This is Draco Malfoy we're talking about, isn't it?"

"Come on, Harry," Ron chimed in, "He's been on the dark path for years now."

"But he doesn't have to be," Harry insisted, "don't you see? If I could just make him see that he's done for, then I can-"

"I think he already knows," Hermione pointed out. "He looked like he was ready to sing his will. He knows he's out of time like you said. Why would hearing you repeat that fact change his mind?"

"I can at least try. I can duel bloody Albus Dumbledore to a standstill now. If it came down to it, I could stop him."

"So could Dumbledore, and yet he's done nothing. Maybe there's a reason for that."

"Yeah," Harry frowned, "like how there was a reason that he didn't tell me about the prophecy, or how he didn't bother to train me until only a few weeks ago, how he let my relatives keep me in-"

Memories of the inside of his cupboard, covered in dust and grime; the screaming and shouting from the other side; the dark, elevated only by thin strips of light in between tiny slats in the door; a singular shelf, meagre and small but still big enough to house his few possessions. Harry was glad that his throat closed up before he could continue before he could let slip the truth of the first eleven years of his life. They couldn't know. None of them could ever know. What would they think of him if they found out?

He spied the concerned faces of his friends, Hermione's caring gaze, Ron furrowed brow, and he realised that he already said too much.

"Look, it doesn't matter now. We need to find out where he's going, and we need to-"

"Harry," Hermione's voice, calm but firm, shot through him like an arrow, "This isn't just about Draco, is it?"

Her eyes bore into him like a river, carving into his resolve.

"It's nothing…" but he couldn't lie, not to Hermione, and now - as he poured over his thoughts - not even to himself.

He knew exactly why he wanted to stop Draco, he had known it all along. Because if Malfoy could be stopped, turned to the light, then maybe, just maybe… Dumbledore wouldn't have to die. He wouldn't have to say goodbye to the man he had come to know almost as a surrogate grandfather. His mentor, his guiding figure. By no means perfect, but he was there, all the same. He vouched for Harry, defended him, saved his life more than once. Even after everything the old man had been responsible for, he couldn't disregard all that the man had done for him.

He couldn't let a good man like Albus Dumbledore die. Too many good people had died for him. People he cared about, and who cared for him. His parents… Sirius…

_But I can stop it_, a small, persistent voice spoke out, _I can prevent it this time. Maybe, if I'm good enough, I won't have to lose anyone else._

"No one else."

It came out as barely a whisper, but it rang like a choir, beckoning him to battle.

He gazed at his two best friends, still watching him, waiting patiently for his response. Even when they thought he was wrong, they were here, standing with him.

"I'm going after him. I'm going to my room, I'm going to get the map, and I'm going to find him."

But he didn't have to, because, as he turned the corner, a sudden pressure in the side of his neck told him exactly where Draco was.

"You're really not very good at sneaking around, are you Potter?" the Slytherin's familiar drawl sounded from an alcove to his right.

"And you're not very good at planning an ambush, Malfoy," Harry replied casually. Even out of the corner of his eye, he could see Draco's confidence turn to confusion, as he finally noticed Hermione and Ron with their wands raised in his direction. Harry grinned. "You really didn't think this through, did you?"

Knowing that it was too late to back out, the Malfoy heir doubled down, sticking his wand into Harry's neck.

"Why are you following me?"

"You know why."

"Prove it!"

"Okay," Harry shrugged, holding out his hand. "Give me your arm."

Draco scowled, his eyes widening.

"What are you talking about?"

Harry glared at him, pinning the Slytherin to the spot.

"Give. Me. Your. Arm."

Whether it was the barely contained anger in Harry's voice, the two wands pointing at his face, or the lack of sleep, Draco relented. He reluctantly began to reach out his forearm. Harry immediately grabbed it, pulling it towards him. Suddenly uprooted, Draco stumbled into Harry's grip, as the Gryffindor wrenched the limb behind Draco's back at an awkward angle. The Slytherin cried out, dropping his wand.

"God, you're dumb," Harry sighed tiredly, kicking away the lost wand. "Now let's see what you've been hiding."

Harry manoeuvred Draco's arm to the front of his body, pulling his sleeve up and revealing a darkened tattoo, detailing a skull and a snake, intertwined. He saw his friend's face flitter from shock to anger to disgust.

"Even for you, Malfoy," Ron scowled, "this is low."

"You'd know about low, wouldn't you, Weasley," Draco spat. "You too, Mudblood."

The only response we could pull from Hermione was a lazy laugh.

"Is it wise to insult your captors, Ferret?"

"You've got no power over me. Not compared to _him_."

"_He_," Harry growled, "is not here right now. We're all you've got. We know you've been tasked to kill Dumbledore, that you were behind the necklace and the poison and the vanishing cabinet. And we know that you're desperate. So how about, for once in your life, you shut up and listen? Because aside from us, and maybe Dumbledore, there isn't a single person in this castle that's willing to help you. And very few others beyond that."

Harry let go of his arm, allowing the Malfoy heir to readjust himself.

"And what are you offering, Potter?" Draco sneered, ever-defiant. "Salvation? Protection?"

"An opportunity," Harry replied resolutely, "to make the right choice. The next time Voldemort calls, don't go to him. Come with us. We can take to someone who can help you."

For the briefest moment, there was a flicker of something other than hatred in Draco's face. Harry could almost describe it as longing. It was extinguished as instantaneously as it appeared, and the classic Malfoy scowl returned in full force.

"Here's _my _offer, Potter. You stay out of my way, and I don't slaughter your friends like the swine they are."

"Better a swine with a wand than a rat without," Ron scoffed, jostling the willow instrument in his hand.

Draco looked extremely unamused. Realising that any potential fight would end very badly for him, he turned, crouched down and picked up his wand. He sheathed it inside his emerald-lined robes and tutted audibly.

"Any of you try to stop me, I will kill you."

Harry, remembering how he had successfully disarmed the great Albus Dumbledore only days before, couldn't help but smirk at the Slytherin's threat. _If I had a penny for every time I've heard that one. Oh, wait. I probably do._

"Remember what I said, Draco. We can help you."

Harry couldn't tell if Draco failed to him, or he simply ignored what he had to say, as the blond took off down the corridor, in a pale imitation of Snape. The Gryffindor trio didn't stop watching until he had rounded the corner, disappearing into the lower levels of the castle. His footsteps mingled with the distant sound of schoolchildren, ultimately fading into the chaos.

"He's going to try something," Harry murmured. "I know it. Maybe even today. We can't let up on this."

"Harry," came Hermione's anxious voice a few seconds later, one they were sure Draco had gone, "I'm not sure this was a good idea."

"Neither am I," Harry shrugged.

"In fact, I think that was rather reckless."

"Oh definitely," Harry agreed, "but it's better than any other plan I had. If Dumbledore wants him alive, there has to be a reason." And as he turned back to Hermione, he realised that there may be one more little piece of truth that he had yet to mention. "Besides, as you said, he's terrified. I know what that feels like. I wouldn't be a very good person If I didn't try to help him."

The look he got from Hermione in the moments after made something in his chest sing, like a string on a cello pulled tight and plucked to a tune. All of sudden, any other words he might have had seemed frozen in his head. His mouth failed to work, even breathing seemed to be put on hold. He didn't know why a look from Hermione was all it took to mess with him on a molecular level, but at that moment it almost made sense.

Neither of the pair noticed Ron glancing between them, rolling his eyes as he made his way back to breakfast, eager to finish his toast.

* * *

Ten o'clock came swiftly, as Harry met with the gargoyle standing guard in front of Dumbledore's office. Whatever reason the headmaster had summoned him, Harry was ready. His confidence from beating his mentor in a duel the other day still had yet to deflate. His enthusiasm was only tempered by the nervous anticipation of waiting for when Draco inevitably made his move.

At least, if Malfoy did try anything today of all days, there would be someone in Hogwarts to combat him. He at least retained that small comfort, having entrusted his mission to the two people he trusted the most. If there was anyone who could handle the task, Hermione was one of them. And Ron was there too. It couldn't hurt to have backup.

The gargoyle opened, beckoning him in. He climbed the stairs, two at a time, knocking on the heavy wooden door once he had reached the top. He heard the familiar voice of the headmaster summoning him inside, and Harry entered the room, ready for whatever Dumbledore had to show him.

The aged professor was sitting at his desk, studying something - a book, Harry realised as he approached. He stood to attention in front of the headmaster's table.

"Good morning, sir."

The man in question looked up from his desk, from the book that he has been pouring over. It was Riddle's diary - the hole from the Basilisk fang was as fresh as the day Harry put it there.

"Good morning, Harry."

"Another training session, sir?" Harry asked, to which Dumbledore shook his head.

"Not today." He stood, beckoning Harry closer. The teen leaned it, and Dumbledore began whispering so that only Harry could hear. "What I am about to tell you must not reach beyond these walls."

So, it was about the Horcruxes then, just as Harry had suspected.

Dumbledore flourished his wand, and the low hum of ambient white noise subdued to a buzz, like they were submerged underwater, or in the middle an invisible cotton bud.

"You've found a Horcrux, then," Harry presumed. Dumbledore eyes twinkled

"Perceptive as ever, Harry," he smiled before his face shifted to grave authority. "Now, I must warn you. Tom has never been one to take the protection of his Horcruxes lightly. Where we go will likely be fraught with danger. I cannot guarantee what we may find, nor that we will survive it unscathed."

Harry stared on, unflinching.

"Where is it?"

"I've managed to narrow it down to a cave on the southern coast. Tom went there on a trip arranged by Wool's Orphanage. I believe he persuaded two other children to follow him into the depths of this cave, where he tormented them."

"That certainly sounds like him."

Dumbledore gave a particular stare, somewhere between scolding and agreement.

"Harry, this will likely be incredibly dangerous. Perhaps more so than anything you've faced before."

"That's saying something."

"It is," Dumbledore nodded tiredly. "It is indeed, but it's the truth. Perhaps if I knew what was inside that cave, I wouldn't be so remiss to say otherwise, but I don't. if you do not wish to accompany me, I would understand."

"No," Harry insisted. "If this really is as dangerous as you say, you're going to need my help."

The smile on Dumbledore's face returned in full force, and for a moment, the years fell away. The mischief and charm that Harry had come to know him for were there for anyone to see, absolutely fearless.

Harry was sure, as long as he had Dumbledore by his side, nothing could go wrong.

* * *

The Gryffindor common room was practically empty at this time of day. The only inhabitants, barely a few, were quietly working or chatting, barely above whispers to not disturb the atmosphere. Hermione Granger was one of them, currently absorbed in The Tales of Beedle the Bard - a book that Dumbledore has not-so-subtly hinted for her to read. From what she could tell, it was a book of fables, little cautionary tales for magical children. Why would Dumbledore of people instruct her to read this? Especially when she could be reading something far more valuable.

Or perhaps, Hermione pondered, there was something she was missing. Maybe Dumbledore trusted that she, of all people, could read between the lines of these stories.

She turned back to the front page, studying the dedication - made out to one Mr P and his son, who contributed to the book in their own way. IN the corner, faded by time, was Dumbledore's own writing. His first name, Albus, made out in careful, practised calligraphy. This was Dumbledore's personal copy, Hermione had deduced. Except, there was something wrong with his signature. Unlike in her Hogwarts acceptance letter, or her subsequent academic awards, Dumbledore had described his signature A nothing she had seen before.

It was a triangle, surrounding a circle, divided by a straight vertical line. Hermione had never once known the letter to be expressed like that. That was saying something, considering she had read some of the oldest, most archaic tomes in the library, where R's look like S's and the letter C barely existed. She had never seen this symbol in her life, and yet it called out to her. Why?

Her train of thought went right out of the window, as the portrait hole flew open. Hermione looked up just in time to see Harry hurry inside.

"How did it go?" she asked as he spotted her.

"No time to explain," he said hurriedly. "I'm meeting Dumbledore in the entrance hall in five minutes." He glanced around at the couple in the corner. They were packing up and beginning to leave, now that the peaceful mood had been shattered. Once they had left, Harry leaned in and whispered. "We're going off to find one of the you-know-whats."

Hermione's eyes widened, locking with his.

"Really?" she gasped. Harry nodded, a cheeky little smirk on his face. "Won't that be dangerous?"

"Probably," he shrugged, but his smile fell away as he recognised Hermione's concern, written plainly on her face. "I'll be fine, Hermione, I promise. I'll have Dumbledore with me."

Hermione felt her bottom lip slip between teeth, habitually chewing lightly.

"Wait here."

She stood from her seat, striding up the stairs, leaving Harry standing in the middle of the empty common room. A minute later, she returned, with a small bundle, wrapped in a blanket. "I made this especially for you."

The bundle was handed to Harry, who held it like it was made of glass. He unwrapped the blanket, revealing a small, glass vial of blue potion. Just below the lid, a cutting of lavender was taped to the surface. To top it all off, a bright red ribbon had been wrapped around the neck.

"Keep it close," she told him, wrapping his fingers around it, "just in case."

For several moments, he just stared at the bottle, the fluorescent blue of the calming draught glistening in the reflection of his glasses. Eventually, he cleared his throat, taking in a deep, shaky breath.

"Thank you, Hermione."

The girl nodded, her fingers moving to his arm, carefully running up and down the fabric of his jumper.

"How long has it been since the last one?" she asked as casually as she could.

"A week," Harry answered stiffly.

"That's good," Hermione reassured him. "That's really good, Harry."

The boy shrugged, trying a smirk.

"I hope so."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He was trying so desperately to remain composed. She almost wished he would just let it all out, but him being Harry, he would try and see it locked up inside for as long as he could. He wouldn't want her to worry. As if that would ever not happen.

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, Hermione stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist and hugging him tightly.

"Stay safe, please," she spoke into his chest. "I worry."

She felt a pleasant rumbling in his chest as he laughed, and smiled at the feeling of his hand, reaching up and stroking her hair.

"I know you do."

"I've half a mind to never let you go, Mr Potter," she admitted, drawing another soft chuckle.

"At least I'd be safe." They drew back, gazing at each other for a moment before Harry captured her hands in his. "Listen, Hermione, in my dormitory, there's my bottle of liquid luck. If Malfoy decides to act up, I want you and Ron to use it."

"What?" Hermione gaped at him. "No, Harry, you should take it."

"I won't need it," he tried to argue, only for Hermione to glare at him.

"You're going off to who-knows-where to find a- you know! You need it more than I do!"

"I don't know what Malfoy's planning to do," he insisted, his hands tightening around her's. "He's desperate, and he's agitated. That makes him dangerous. He could go after you, or Ron, or Ginny, or anyone I know. I need to know you're safe."

Infuriated, Hermione pulled her hands away, staring him down.

"How do you think I feel? Not being there to help you. What if…" Her eyes fell to the floor. "What if this time you don't come back?"

The feeling of a firm grip on her shoulders brought her attention straight back to Harry.

"Look at me," he demanded. At some point he had leaned down ever so slightly so that they were at eye-level, allowing his blazing green eyes to transfix her to the spot. "I'm coming back. That's a promise. I don't break promises."

The intensity in his eyes was like a bonfire; a raging, beautiful inferno that sent heat flushing across her cheeks. Instinct told her to look away, to find anything else to stare at other than him and yet she couldn't. She hardly noticed when, at some point, a hand had reached up and gently cupped her cheek - it must have happened while he was speaking - but it certainly didn't help matters.

Hermione knew what she needed to do, what her subconscious was screaming at her to do.

And so, she reached forward and planted a quick peck on the side of his face.

It was over as soon as it had begun, but the moment that her lips had touched the edge of Harry's cheek felt like it had lasted a lifetime. By the time she pulled back, his entire complexion had suddenly gone crimson, mirroring her own.

"For luck," she stuttered, the first excuse her brain was able to pluck from thin air.

Perhaps unable to do anything else, Harry nodded, his eyes wide, his lips parted in a minute O.

"F-For luck…" he eventually sounded through his nerves. "I feel pretty lucky now."

There was a second of shock from both of them, as they realised what Harry had said. The two could only gawk wide-eyed at each other, blushing up a storm. That is, until a giggle made its way up Hermione's throat, dammed in vain between her tight lips. With the sight of an utterly flustered, helpless Harry standing in front of her, she couldn't help it. She quickly dissolved into a giggling fit, unable to contain it any longer.

Harry continued to stare at her until it all became too much for him also. He sniggered, then he chuckled, then the floodgates blew open, and he cried out with hilarity.

The laughing eventually died down, leaving the two teens by themselves, in a deserted common room. Even though the temperature of the space had seemingly gone to normal - or at least that was how it felt to Hermione - there was still something between them. This hanging, unspoken thing that refused to be given a name. The two realised it as their eyes met once again, suddenly very aware that it was just the two of them.

Anything could happen. No one would know.

_Dangerous thoughts, Granger, _she told herself. _Enough._

"You'd better be off," Hermione reminded him. She saw his eyes widen a fraction, suddenly remembering why he had come here in the first place.

"Yes, of course," he agreed reluctantly. He turned to leave, stopping slightly as if he had forgotten something. "Miss you."

"You're still here, Harry," she smiled, revelling in how his face glowed.

"Right," he said bashfully. His smile had turned adorably lop-sided, a hand had snaked up behind his head, absently scratching away.

He turned, pocketing the blue vial of potion in his pocket, hightailing out of the common room to meet with Dumbledore. Just in time to miss Hermione's wistful reply.

"Miss you too."

* * *

Undoubtedly a few minutes late, Harry came upon the entrance hall. Dumbledore, predictably, was already standing inside, a gentle, amused smile on his face. He didn't ask where Harry had been that had caused him to take since seven minutes as opposed to their agreed five. Then again, perhaps he already knew. Harry wasn't entirely sure that omniscience wasn't one of Dumbledore's many skills.

Wasting no more time, the two began the long trek to the edge of Hogsmeade, where they could then apparate to... well, wherever it was they were going.

Harry really didn't know. He didn't where he was going, or when he was coming back.

He might not even make it back.

That was always a reality whenever he went off on one of these adventures - he certainly didn't think he would really survive a battle with a basilisk, for instance. But this time, it felt all the more real. Dumbledore's presence, ironically, only served to reinforce the fact that this wasn't going be a walk in the park. This was real.

He might never see Hermione again.

Harry didn't know why that fact seemed to disturb him so, or why it was Hermione's face that came to him first. It was probably because she was the last person he had spoken to, Harry reasoned. Because he promised her, he would come back. He didn't want to have to break another promise, not to her. Especially not to her.

They reached the edge of the town, past Rosmerta's tavern, the barmaid in question giving them a short farewell as they apparated away.

A wall of salty air and rushing waves assaulted his sense as they touched down on solid ground. A thunderous, biting wind ruffled his hair as he looked out on a grey, violent world. Standing upon a high outcrop of dark rock, water foaming and churning below him. He glanced over his shoulder. A towering cliff stood behind them, a sheer drop, black and faceless. A few large chunks of rock, such as the one upon which Harry and Dumbledore were standing, looked as though they had broken away from the cliff face at some point in the past. Waves, higher than him crashed against each other, in a never war against the elements.

_No wonder Riddle was attracted to here of all places_, Harry thought to himself. It almost made too much sense.

Keen not to waste any time, Dumbledore beckoned him and began making the treacherous journey to their destination. Harry followed, fingering the extra bottle that Hermione had given him, revelling in the small hike in confidence it gave him.

* * *

"Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I'll never, never again..."

"This will make it stop, Professor," Harry said, his voice cracking as he tipped the seventh glass of potion into Dumbledore's mouth.

Dumbledore began to cower as though invisible torturers surrounded him; his flailing hand almost knocked the refilled goblet from Harry's trembling hands as he moaned, "Don't hurt them, don't hurt them, please, please, it's my fault, hurt me instead..."

"Here, drink this, drink this, you'll be all right," said Harry desperately, and once again Dumbledore obeyed him, opening his mouth even as he kept his eyes tight shut and shook from head to foot. And now he fell forward, screaming again, hammering his fists upon the ground, while Harry filled the ninth goblet.

"Please, please, please, no... not that, not that, I'll do anything..."

"Just drink, Professor, just drink..."

Dumbledore drank like a child dying of thirst, but when he had finished, he yelled again as though his insides were on fire. "No more, please, no more..."

Harry scooped up a tenth goblet of potion and felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin. "We're nearly there, professor. Drink this, drink it..."

He supported Dumbledore's shoulders and again, Dumbledore drained the glass. Harry was on his feet once more, refilling the goblet as Dumbledore began to scream in more anguish than ever, "I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!"

The anguish in his voice tore Harry's heart in two. The pain, written all over the headmaster's face, spoke of the horrors he was seeing. Harry could only imagine what was going on inside Dumbledore's head, what fresh nightmare he was being subjected to.

"Drink this, Professor. Drink this..."

Harry offered the goblet with a shaking, clammy hand.

Dumbledore drank, and no sooner had he finished than he yelled, "KILL ME!"

"This - this one will!" gasped Harry, trying to reconcile the pain he was putting the headmaster through. Trying desperately to keep his breathing steading, to combat the creeping terror that was approaching out of the dark. "Just drink this... It'll be over... all over!"

He realised, as his words began to slur, and his breathing became laboured and shallow, that something was wrong. Very wrong. It was another attack. Now of all the times, of all the places. But he couldn't stop now, not when the headmaster needed him to carry on. Once the potion was drained, then he could remedy the attack.

He pushed aside the fear, forcing it down for only a moment, fighting every instinct in his body to finish the task. He put the goblet to the old wizard's lip and poured, trying to keep it steady.

Dumbledore gulped at the goblet, drained every last drop, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over onto his face.

"No!" shouted Harry, who had stood to refill the goblet again. Instead, he dropped the cup, flung himself down beside Dumbledore, and heaved him over onto his back. Dumbledore's glasses were askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. "No," said Harry, shaking Dumbledore, "no, you're not dead, you said it wasn't poison, wake up, wake up - Rennervate!" he cried, his wand pointing at Dumbledore's chest. There was a flash of red light, but nothing happened. "Rennervate - RENNERVATE!"

Nothing. The old man, pale and limp, didn't stir. He had killed him, Harry realised. It was by his hand that Harry had fed him the potion. It was his fault. It was all his fault.

Dumbledore's eyelids flickered; Harry's heart leapt, "Sir, are you - ?"

He fought against the trembling in his jaw, trying to form a sentence.

"Water…" he heard Dumbledore gasp. "Water..."

Harry grabbed the goblet from where it had been abandoned on the rock, twirling his wand.

"Aguamenti!" he cast, filling the cup with fresh water. He offered it to the headmaster's lips and poured. Nothing came out. The water was gone as soon as his eyes left it. "Aguamenti!" He tried again. As soon as the goblet was full, the water vanished. Harry threw it aside. This wasn't working. He had to do something. He couldn't think. He needed air; to get out this damn cave and get them to safety. He needed to run. Run! The dark! The dark was closing in! Dumbledore's rasping breath, echoing with his own. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't…

Harry's hands flew to his back pocket, taking out the vial of calming draught Hermione had gifted him.

In a moment of selfishness, he downed the potion. Instantly he felt his world inflate and calm. He took a deep breath, his thoughts falling into place like snowflakes falling onto freshly-cut grass. The scent of lavender filled his brain, and all was right.

He knew what he had to do. Dumbledore needed water, and he had a vial that used to be filled with calming draught, now empty and waiting to be filled. Harry waved his wand over the glass container, and water rushed into the empty vial. He waited a few seconds, testing if the liquid would vanish. To his relief, the water sat within the glass, barely moving, except to lazily roll around. The cave itself wasn't cursed then, only the goblet. That was good.

Harry climbed back towards the headmaster, lifting his head and pouring the water inside. This time, he saw the liquid rush between the old man's lips, seeping into his throat. Dumbledore drank eagerly.

The vial soon ran dry, but Harry was ready with another spell, filling the bottle back up in seconds, ready to quench Dumbledore's thirst. Hopefully, it wouldn't be long now before Dumbledore would be strong enough to get up and leave. He had fought through the worst of it, drinking the potion with admirable resolve. They had the Horcrux, they had beaten the test. All they had to do now was leave. Everything was going to be…

What little Harry victory had earned was shattered when he saw movement on the edge of the water.

Pale, bony hands were breaking the surface, followed by hollow, glass-eyed faces atop of skeletal bodies. Corpses, barely held together, approaching from all sides by the dozens. The Inferi, Harry deduced. The creatures he had been warned about. It was strange to see such fearsome creatures, one that contended with Harry's worst nightmares, and to know that the fear was there. But he wasn't scared.

The calming draught was working its magic, smothering the worst of Harry's primal instincts, leaving him in a zen-like state of pure concentration. His mind was meticulously picking apart the situation in front of him. Plans began to spring to his mind in the dozens. Blast them to bits. No, too many. Freeze the water. No, that wouldn't hold them long. Besides, wasn't there something that Dumbledore told him about these things? Something they were deathly afraid of?

_Fire_, Harry remembered. _Fire is what will stop them. It'll need to be a lot. I had better get started, they're surprisingly fast for corpses._

He stood, resting on legs weakened from fear, but strengthened by courage.

_Protect. Defend. Around us both. Keep them away._

He palmed his wand, summoning the strength to cast one last powerful spell. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs and shouted with everything he had:

"INCENDIO!"

Fire, unlike anything Harry had ever seen.

Bright orange, blinding and scorching. The Inferi fell away under a curtain of flames, rising and swirling like a tornado around the island. Steam rose and evaporated as the wall of fire touched the surface of the water, pushing the Inferi back. He could see the surface thrash away as limbs fought to sink further into the depths.

Harry didn't stop there. He couldn't stop, not when Dumbledore's life depended on it. His promise to Hermione, to come home safely, sat at the forefront of his mind. He would come back to her, and Ron, and everyone else. He had to keep pushing himself, further than he ever had.

The teenager pointed his wand to the entrance of the cave, folding the tornado into a tunnel. With one arm keeping the fire in line, he leaned down and hooked his arm around Dumbledore's shoulders with the other, grabbing the wand that had fallen on the floor beside him. Heaving the Dumbledore up onto his feet, Harry trudged towards the boat that sat on the bank. He lowered the headmaster's frail body into the seat, jumped in and pushed off.

The oar had been lost on the escape, but it mattered not. As long as Harry had a straight shot to the opposite shore, he could get them to safety.

Focusing his sights on the bank on the far side of the cave, he lowered his wand, keeping the shape of the tunnel in his mind. The flames remained, forming a direct path to the exit.

"Celerio!"

The boat shot forward, speeding through the water as if an engine had been fitted to the back. Harry breathed in and out, focusing on keeping the demand of two titanic spells from swallowing him up. It would only be for a moment more, just long enough to escape… Stars flitted across his vision. Darkness encroaching at the sides, despite the light of the fire illuminated all that he could see. He was losing consciousness. He had to breathe. He had to focus on the now. Just a little bit more.

Seconds later, the boat landed with a thud against the bank, and Harry wasted no time. He quickly dispelled the flames and the acceleration spell, suddenly feeling his youthful vitality return to him. He picked up the headmaster and pulled him ashore, rushing to the cave entrance, before the Inferi had a chance to catch up.

* * *

The middle of the dark High Street in Hogsmeade was greeted with Harry and Dumbledore's sudden arrival. For one horrible moment, Harry's imagination showed him more Inferi creeping towards him around the sides of shops, but he blinked and saw that nothing was stirring. All was still, the darkness complete but for a few street lamps and lit upper windows.

"We did it, Professor!" Harry whispered with difficulty; he suddenly realised that he had a searing stitch in his chest. "We did it! We got the Horcrux!"

Dumbledore staggered against him. For a moment, Harry thought that his inexpert Apparition had thrown Dumbledore off-balance; then he saw his face, paler and damper than ever in the distant light of a streetlamp.

"Sir, are you all right?"

"I've been better," said Dumbledore weakly, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "That potion... was no health drink..."

And to Harry's horror, Dumbledore sank on to the ground.

"Sir - it's OK, Sir, you're going to be alright, don't worry-"

He looked around desperately for help, but there was nobody to be seen, and all he could think was that he must somehow get Dumbledore quickly to the hospital wing.

"We need to get you up to the school, Sir... Madam Pomfrey..."

Before Harry could make a move, however, he heard running footsteps. His heart leapt: somebody had seen, somebody knew they needed help - and looking around he saw Madam Rosmerta scurrying down the dark street towards them on high-heeled, fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing-gown embroidered with dragons.

"I saw you Apparate as I was pulling my bedroom curtains! Thank goodness, thank goodness, I couldn't think what to - but what's wrong with Albus?"

She came to a halt, panting, and stared down, wide-eyed, at Dumbledore.

"He's hurt," said Harry. "Madam Rosmerta, can he come into the Three Broomsticks while I go up to the school and get help for him?"

"The school? Don't you realise - haven't you seen -?"

"Seen what?" said Harry, not really listening to her, to busy with trying to support Dumbledore.

"What has happened?" asked Dumbledore. "Rosmerta, what's wrong?"

She pointed in the direction of Hogwarts, towards a bright orange light that shone light the evening sun. Dread flooded Harry at the sound of the words ... he turned and looked.

The castle was alight with flames. Smoke was billowing up into the sky, blocking out the stars.

"When did this happen?" asked Dumbledore, and his hand clenched painfully upon Harry's shoulder as he struggled to his feet.

"Must have been minutes ago, it wasn't there when I put the cat out, but when I got upstairs -"

"We need to return to the castle at once," said Dumbledore. "Rosmerta," and though he staggered a little, he seemed wholly in command of the situation, "we need transport - brooms-"

"I've got a couple behind the bar," she said, looking very frightened. "Shall I run and fetch -?"

"No, Harry can do it."

Harry raised his wand at once.

"Accio Rosmerta's brooms."

A second later they heard a loud bang as the front door of the pub burst open; two brooms had shot out into the street and were racing each other to Harry's side, where they stopped dead, quivering slightly, at waist height.

Madam Rosmerta was already tottering back towards her pub as Harry and Dumbledore kicked off from the ground and rose up into the air. As they sped towards the castle, Harry glanced sideways at Dumbledore, ready to grab him should he fall, but to his surprise, the old man had seemingly got his second wind, his long silver hair and beard flying behind him in the night air. He was still deathly pale and hunched over his broom, but he was far from dead. Which is more than could be said for Harry's friends.

How long had they been away? This must have been Draco's doing, but when? How long had the fire been burning? What had caused it? Was it an Incendio? An explosion? A Fiendfyre? Hermione! Ron! Had they been caught up in whatever the hell this was? He was the one who had told them to keep an eye on Malfoy, he had asked them to jeopardize their safety... was he about to lose someone else?

As they flew over the dark, twisting lane down which they had walked earlier, Harry heard, over the whistling of the night air in his ears, Dumbledore muttering in some strange language again. He thought he understood why as he felt his broom shudder for a moment when they flew over the boundary wall into the grounds. Dumbledore was undoing the enchantments he had set around the castle so that they could enter at speed.

As they soared towards the entrance hall, Harry noticed a large crowd of students gathered on the grass, away from the source of the flames. A small sense of relief ran through him as he realised that at least the rest of the school was safely out of the way. They landed in the giant doorway, and immediately Harry went to Dumbledore's side.

"My office," he demanded, "Now!"

Harry, too overwhelmed to argue, obeyed. The two managed surprising speed as they trudged up the many flights of stairs, up to the Headmaster's tower. The managed to arrive in good time, and Harry shouted the password, carrying Dumbledore inside once the gargoyle slid away. The pair entered the office, and Harry deposited the aged wizard in his chair.

"The locket," Dumbledore prompted. Harry handed it over and watched as the Headmaster produced a key, unlocked a drawer in his desk and dropped the relic inside. "That should keep it contained for now. We can destroy it later."

"Do you think Draco's behind the fire?" Harry asked.

"I'm almost certain of it," Dumbledore nodded, his eyes dropping as if he were fighting to stay conscious. Harry had never seen the Headmaster so vulnerable. He was in no shape to fight anyone, let alone Malfoy. But Harry was and knew immediately what he had to do.

"I'm going to stop him," Harry announced, pulling out his wand and turned towards the door. However, a firm, bony grip on his arm kept him in place.

"Harry," Dumbledore rasped, staring him in the eye, "what did you say to him?"

A wave of guilt racked through Harry's body. He had last forgotten about his confrontation earlier that day. Back then, he had been riding the high of beating Dumbledore, so sure that he could figure out the young Malfoy, that he knew better than the Headmaster. How long he had been. How foolish, to think that he could just barge into the situation and take control.

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry whispered, forcing himself to return eye contact. "This is all my fault."

"No," Dumbledore said as he shook his head, "Harry, it is mine. I've spent so many years keeping secrets from you. Things that you most certainly should have known. I thought that you wouldn't be ready to hear them, but now I realise you were ready for this war before I ever was." His good hand reached around and held Harry by the shoulder, squeezing as a grandparent would their favourite grandchild. "You are one of the finest wizards I've ever had the pleasure to teach, and I'm sorry, Harry. I'm deeply, truly sorry."

He sat back, taking in a deep breath, steadying himself against his chair.

"Go," he ordered, in a tone of voice that beggared no argument, "find Draco. I shall send for Severus, he'll know what to do."

Harry nodded.

"Yes, sir."

And with that, he turned and sprinted out of the Headmaster's office. Down the stairs, past the gargoyle, and through the corridor, Harry raced to where he had seen the fire. It couldn't have been a coincidence that the fire was raging where the potions labs were situated - it was presumably how Draco had been able to start it. Who knew what kind of damage a room full of potions could cause if it were set alight. Harry could only hope that no one was inside when it had been set alight.

Harry vaulted through the central courtyard, his wand ready and waiting just in case he met Draco along the way. As he was running, he almost ran headfirst into another person. He skidded to a halt just in time to catch sight of a head of long, red hair.

"Ginny!" Harry exclaimed. The girl in question, wide-eyed and panting, took one look at him and engulfed him in a hug.

"Harry!" she cried. "Where were you! Hermione's been worried sick! I thought you were caught in the fire!"

"I'm fine, Ginny," Harry hurriedly placated her, prying her arms off of him. "Listen, I think I know who started this-"

"Draco," she nodded. "Hermione told us that he was going to try something sooner or later."

Hermione, Harry remembered suddenly, as his heart jumped into his throat. He was about to ask when Ginny shushed him.

"She's fine," she said, "She was the first to find the fire. She even cast a barrier to keep it in the classroom. She's outside with the others."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"They needed a couple of people to do one last sweep of the castle, and since I'm one of the fastest, I offered."

"And risk running into Malfoy?"

"He's nowhere near here," she explained. "Ron, he got the Marauder's Map from your case, to keep an eye on Malfoy. As soon as the fire started, he went straight up to the second-floor corridor."

"The second floor?" Harry repeated. "But that's…"

That was where the Headmaster's office was.

Harry's eyes widened as he struggled to remember if the gargoyle had closed behind him. Surely Dumbledore wouldn't have…

A strange shape, pressing against the side of his robes, one that he hadn't noticed until now, finally caught his attention. He reached inside, fingering a thin sliver of wood. Begging against hope that it wasn't what he thought it was, Harry grabbed hold and lifted it out of his robes.

It was Dumbledore's wand. Dumbledore was in his office, right now, without his wand, defenceless.

How? Harry distinctly remembered giving the Headmaster's wand back to him. He could visualise it clearly. Unless… Harry thought back to the moment Dumbledore had grabbed his arm, stopping him from leaving, placing this other hand on Harry's shoulder. Dumbledore must have slipped it into his pocket when he wasn't paying attention.

He knew what was about to happen. He knew that he wouldn't need it.

Suddenly, Harry realised precisely what the purpose the fire had served. It was a distraction, nothing more. And Harry had fallen for it.

His heart thundering against his chest, Harry swivelled on the spot and began sprinting back up the corridor. Even as Ginny screamed after him, he kept on running, daring not to look back.

He pumped his arms and legs until he thought they might fall off. His lungs screamed out in pain, his blood pumping against his eardrums as his vision tunnelled in on where he needed to go. He had to save Dumbledore. This was all his fault. Running faster than he ever had in his life, Harry turned the corner of the second-floor corridor.

The gargoyle was still open. A flash of blonde rounded the corner of the stone staircase. Harry's heart stopped.

He sprinted down the corridor up the stairs as quietly as he could. Despite his panic, he knew he needed to have the element of surprise if he was to stop Draco. He carefully and skilfully jumped up the stairs three at a time, stopping at the open doorway. He glanced inside the office, his blood boiling as he registered the scene in front of him.

Draco Malfoy, standing tall and proud, held a pale, weakened Dumbledore at wand-point.

A deep-seated fury erupted in Harry's mind. A voice in his head whispered to him. _He's going to kill Dumbledore. Stop him! Kill him! At least do something!_

Harry raised his wand, ready to cast the spell that would incapacitate Draco when he caught a glimpse of Dumbledore. The old man's eyes flickered in his direction, straight at him for only a moment. But it was enough.

With one look, Dumbledore told him everything he needed to say.

_Don't._

Harry's head screamed at him to ignore the Headmaster's order, to take matters into his own hands yet again. But his head, the voice that reminded him so much of Hermione, warned him that ignoring Dumbledore's orders was what caused this whole ordeal. He had to wait. He had to give Draco a chance...

So, Harry tucked himself into a corner, non-verbally casting a silencing charm on himself, and watched.

"I've got a job to do," Draco announced.

"Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy," said Dumbledore softly.

There was silence. Harry stood, staring at the two of them, waiting with bated breath. He had done this. This was his fault. If only he hadn't confronted Draco. If only he had just followed the Headmaster's orders.

And yet, nothing happened. Draco Malfoy did nothing but stare at Albus Dumbledore who, incredibly, smiled.

"You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year, and yet this may be the closest you've come. To be honest, I wonder whether your heart has been really in it…"

"It has been in it!" said Malfoy vehemently. "I've been working on this all year, and tonight -"

Somewhere in the depths of the castle below, Harry heard a muffled yell - merely a final call for any remaining students. Yet it was enough to make Malfoy flinch and glance over his shoulder in alarm. Dumbledore, in contrast, sat undisturbed, even with a wand aimed at his head.

"I see," said Dumbledore kindly, when Malfoy neither moved nor spoke. "You are afraid."

"I'm not afraid!" snarled Malfoy, though he still made no move to hurt Dumbledore. "It's you who should be scared!"

"But why? I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe…"

Malfoy looked as though he was fighting down the urge to shout or to vomit. He gulped and took several deep breaths, glaring at Dumbledore, his wand pointing directly at the latter's heart.

"If you really knew that I was behind all those things, why didn't you stop me, then?" Malfoy demanded.

"I tried, Draco. Professor Snape has been keeping watch over you on my orders -"

"He hasn't been doing your orders, he promised my mother-"

"Of course that is what he would tell you, Draco, but-"

"He's a double-agent, you stupid old man, he isn't working for you, you just think he is!"

"We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens that I trust Professor Snape -"

"Well, you're losing your grip, then!" sneered Malfoy. "He's been offering me plenty of help - wanting all the glory for himself - wanting a bit of the action - 'What are you doing? Did you do the necklace, that was stupid, it could have blown everything-'But I haven't told him about today. He's going to wake up tomorrow, and it'll all be over, and he won't be the Dark Lord's favourite any more, he'll be nothing compared to me, nothing!"

"Very gratifying," said Dumbledore mildly. "We all like appreciation for our own hard work, of course ... but you must understand that Lord Voldemort is not the appreciative type. He is using you, Draco. Surely you must see."

Malfoy's mouth contorted involuntarily, as though he had tasted something very bitter.

"Now, about tonight," Dumbledore went on, "I am a little puzzled about how it happened ... you knew that I had left the school? But of course," he answered his own question, "Rosmerta saw me leaving. How long has she been under the Imperius?"

"Took you long enough to figure out."

"Well, it has been a tiresome day, my boy. And, she tipped you off, how?"

Malfoy lifted a familiar, enchanted galleon into view.

"Confiscated a couple of these off the DA last year. I knew they'd come in useful one day," said Malfoy. "But she said you were just going for a drink, you'd be back …"

"Well, I certainly did have a drink ... and I came back ... after a fashion," mumbled Dumbledore. "So you decided to spring a trap for me?"

"Decided to set fire to the potions lab to distract the staff, get everyone out of the castle, then sneak up here," said Malfoy. "Snape said you went out to get something important, that you'd need to store it here immediately after you got back. I took my time, waited for you and Potter to come back, heard him say the password. I outsmarted you! Caught you unaware!"

"Well... yes and no…" said Dumbledore. "But am I to take it then that nobody has been harmed?"

'Someone might've,' said Malfoy. "Didn't check if anyone was in the room. Just knew I had to cause a big enough bang."

"And you just so happened to choose an empty classroom, after the final afternoon class. What a happy coincidence."

"What are you saying?"

"Nothing, nothing, my boy. Now, considering how, in a few minutes the fire will be distinguished, and your ruse will be rumbled soon after, I believe there is little time, one way or another," said Dumbledore. "So let us discuss your options, Draco."

"My options!" said Malfoy loudly. "I'm standing here with a wand - I'm about to kill you -"

"My dear boy, let us have no more pretence about that. If you were going to kill me, you would not have stopped for this pleasant chat about ways and means."

"I haven't got any options!" said Malfoy, and he was suddenly as white as Dumbledore. "I've got to do it! He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family! He's given me this one chance to make up for being found out, and if I don't do it…"

"Draco, no harm has been done, you have hurt nobody, though you are very lucky that your unintentional victims survived ... I can help you, Draco."

"No, you can't," said Malfoy, his wand hand shaking very badly indeed. "Nobody can. He told me to do it or he'll kill me. I've got no choice."

"We can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine. What is more, I can send members of the order to your mother tonight to hide her likewise. Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban ... when the time comes, we can protect him too. You still have a choice."

Malfoy stared at Dumbledore.

"But I got this far, didn't I?" he said slowly. "They thought I'd die in the attempt, but I'm here... and you're in my power... I'm the one with the wand... you're at my mercy …"

"No," said Dumbledore quietly. "It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now. You're not a killer, Draco, and you are not your father. The moment you admit that to yourself, you will be free."

Malfoy did not speak. His mouth was open, his wand hand still trembling. Harry thought he saw it drop by a fraction -

But suddenly footsteps were thundering up the stairs, and a second later he felt his muscles seize up. Another spell and he was shoved into the corner of the staircase, disillusioned from sight.

A figure in black robes burst through the doorway, his wand readied. Paralysed, his eyes staring unblinkingly, Harry could only watch as Snape entered the room, finally answering Dumbledore's summon.

_What is he doing? _Harry screamed inside his head. _Why now?_ _I had this under control!_

His black eyes scanned the scene, from Dumbledore slumped against his chair, to Draco, shaking in the middle of the room. Harry could see the faintest hint of a scowl curl his lips as he realised what the young Malfoy had come to do, anger that what he was about to do.

And then his eyes returned to the Headmaster, resignation written all over his face. He began to raise his wand, knowing what he had to do. Harry's heart leapt into his throat. This was it. It was happening now. He wasn't ready. There was so much he had to say, so little that he knew.

But above all, he didn't want to see another person he cared about die.

"Severus …"

The sound frightened Harry beyond anything he had experienced all evening. For the first time, Dumbledore was pleading. It was for show, of course. This was all part of the plan. The only person who didn't know that was preordained was Draco himself. Still, it hurt to hear his mentor so desperate, even if it was a facade. He didn't want to remember the Headmaster in this way - weak, pale, begging.

Snape said nothing, but walked forwards and pushed Malfoy roughly out of the way. Snape gazed for a moment at Dumbledore, and there was revulsion and regret etched in the harsh lines of his face.

"Severus... please..."

Snape raised his wand and pointed it directly at Dumbledore.

"Avada Kedavra!"

It was over in less than a second. To Harry, however, watching the life leave Dumbledore's eyes felt like it took a thousand years.

His mentor's body collapsed, finally at peace. And Harry screamed into silence.


	9. In Secret Lives

CHAPTER IX: In Secret Lives

Harry expected Dumbledore's body to move. Something, deep in his brain, refused to believe what he had just seen. Even long after Snape had dragged Draco from the office, dispelling the spells keeping Harry in place, he just stood there, staring at the headmaster's body. Waiting. Hoping. Begging.

_Please move. Please get up. Please don't be dead._

Dumbledore remained unmoving, and Harry knew this was real.

Sensation eventually returned as Harry's legs lead him to the desk in the middle of the room.

He trod slowly, conscious of every footstep. As he stumbled closer, Harry got a look at the headmaster's face. Dumbledore's eyes were staring outward, seeing nothing. The twinkle in his eyes had been extinguished forever, replaced with an empty, endless gaze. They looked like they were made of glass.

Carefully, as if not to hurt the aged wizard, Harry reached over and closed them. One last dignity for the man that done so much for him. The one he failed to save.

Harry stared at the ancient wand in his hand. It felt far heavier than he expected it to be. Why Dumbledore had given it to him was beyond him, why the headmaster had chosen to bestow his only defence to his failed student. He was the one who got him killed, he didn't deserve to hold Albus Dumbledore's wand.

Harry knew what was to come. It had been discussed many times. Snape and Draco were on their way out of the castle right this second, and he had to chase them, all the way to the edge of the Hogwarts bounds, far enough to where they could apparate away. And, at the same time, put up enough of a fight to convince Malfoy that this was a desperate, hurried escape, and not a pre-meditated attempt to preserve his life.

Draco may never know how much they had sacrificed to save his soul, what had been taken from the world so that he could survive another day. So that could carry on walking down his father's unapologetically twisted path. That thought alone was enough to turn Harry's sorrow into apocalyptic anger.

He left Dumbledore's wand on the oak desk, gathering himself for the chase. He just had to make sure Draco escaped. It didn't mean he had to make it easy.

The teenage wizard, vibrating with righteous fury, stormed out of the headmaster's office and took off after his prey.

* * *

His legs carried him faster than he ever thought possible. Corridors and hallways rushed past him as if they were flushing him out of the castle. Soon enough, he was out onto the open grass, and sprinting down the path, ignoring the students gathered in safety far away from the blaze. The sound of gravel under his feet, and heaving of his own breath, drove him faster and faster to the edge of the grounds.

Before long, he spotted two dark figures, hurrying to the gate — one with a billowing cloak, and the other, shorter with a head of blonde hair.

"Malfoy!" Harry roared, throwing a blast of fire flying past them, onto the lawn by their side. "You coward!"

The two jumped, and Draco whirled around, his eyes wide and evident with fear. Immediately he threw curses back at him, but Harry's reflexes - trained by years of Quidditch and honed by Dumbledore himself - were too quick. Every spell that came his way, he deflected with ease. Draco's barrage did nothing to halt, or even falter, Harry's stride.

"Draco, run!"

The Slytherin boy was herded behind Snape's back, and the potion's master threw his own spell.

Harry defected the wand with nary a thought.

And so the duel began. The fight that was already decided, designed to buy time for an escape. An exchange of spell-fire without any real intent. Every spell for show, every movement practised. There was going to be no real winner.

Both of them were bound to protect Draco, not just by vow, but by a promise to Dumbledore himself. Snape had no choice in the matter but to act the part, and neither did Harry. This had to happen, just as Dumbledore had said it would.

The two unspoken allies stared at each other, apprentice and spy. A shared revulsion, and shared respect, rippled between them.

"He trusted you!" Harry cried, putting his all into a convincing performance. "He trusted you, and you killed him!"

Harry wondered if it was the reflection of the fire, or if he could really see something of remorse in Snape's eye. A shadow of a man that wanted more than this, if he thought he had a choice. Or rather, if he hadn't wasted what opportunities he once had. Just like Draco had done - just like Draco was doing right now.

The coward just turned and ran, leaving Snape to face Harry himself. He was heading straight for the boundary, caring only for his escape. He was abandoning the one person who cared for his safety to their own demise, his own ally.

Harry watched as the ferret sprinted away and growled. It was his fault that Dumbledore was dead, it was he who refused to stand up to Voldemort, to accept their help. He, who almost poisoned Ron, almost cursed Katie, kept Rosmerta under Imperius for an entire year. He, who had a family and a mansion to run back to, who would happily side with a murderer and way of life that subjugated innocent people.

He was a bastard, a wretched, spineless parasite. He deserved the worst pain in the world, to be gutted like a pig… the rage was too much to bear.

Harry aimed his wand and let it all out in one explosive cry.

"Sectumsempra!"

The spell flew through the air and hit its mark. Malfoy's back exploded into a fine red mist. Harry's heart stopped as the young man fell to the ground, perfectly still. Shock plunged his body into an icy chill. Blood was soaking the dirt, draining out of Draco's rapidly paling skin.

The moment passed. Harry came back to himself. His heart shook as he realised what he had done. Even Snape was staring at him in shock, mirroring his own.

Something was singing within him now. There was a piece of him that was glad, now that Dumbledore had been avenged. An animal that had just tasted its first blood, and heartedly enjoyed it.

Then he blinked, and he was somewhere else entirely.

The grass was gone, and Harry was back in the boy's bathroom. The water ran red, blood staining Draco's shirt. His feet were soaked through, send a freezing cold up his body, and Harry could only stand there and stare at his work.

He had killed a man. A boy, no older than he was, lay dead on the tiles. He was a murderer.

"Very good," a snake-like voice sounded from within his ear.

The hairs on Harry's neck stood on end. He glanced around, desperate to find the source of the noise. His eyes caught sight something other than blood in the water. Harry looked down to where his reflection should have been and screamed at the face that met him.

Gleaming red eyes and a pallid, slit-nosed face grinned back.

Harry resurfaced, and the nightmare vanished before his eyes.

He instinctively reached for his glasses and gazed around frantically. The red bannisters; the other boys, sleeping soundly; Ron, just opposite, snoring away. The bathroom was nowhere to be seen.

His shirt was stuck to his heaving, chest with sweat, his lower body strangled in his contorted bedding. His muscles were spasming wildly, clenching and unclenching to the tune of his pounding pulse.

It took several seconds before his brain could finally function as usual and had regained a part of himself. He was safe. It was only a dream, none of it was real, that wasn't what had happened that night. He was not a murderer; Draco was still very much alive, somewhere, as was Snape. Or at least, if he wasn't, it had nothing to do with Harry.

Harry lay back against his pillow, untangling his legs of the duvet and exposing himself to the cold midnight air. He stared up at the rafter as his mind stilled, breathing in and out. In and out. One lungful at a time.

His head was a cocktail of emotion. Shock, fear… and rage.

The rage was still there. Harry wanted to cast that spell. The beast within craved Draco's blood that night, for all that the brat had done not only to him, but to Katie, and Ron and everyone else he had used. And not just Draco, but his father too, and Bellatrix, and Nott, and Fenrir, and Riddle. He wanted them all to suffer.

It was terrifying, to know that piece of him lay just beneath the surface. If any Death Eater found themselves at the end of Harry's wand, they would know it well. Did that make him a bad person? Was it still cruelty if he was hurting evil people? Probably, Harry thought. But this was soon to be war. It's not like they would take mercy on him. He had to be ready to fight like his life depended on it. If that meant using lethal force…

The thought sickened him, but Harry knew it was almost inevitable. He wasn't a murderer; or, at least, he didn't want to be a murderer. Harry wasn't even sure that he had it in him to actively take a life, even a morally decrepit one. If all went to plan, however, he would have one person's blood on his hands. He would eventually have to take the life of a living person.

Maybe if Voldemort didn't exist, if there wasn't a war on the way, he could keep a promise never to kill or maim or injure. Maybe then he could keep his hands clean. But he didn't live in that perfect world, and war was coming.

He would have no choice but to fight.

Harry hoped that people wouldn't forget that part. He hoped that future generations, people who told his story, would remember that detail. That just because he fought, just because he killed, didn't mean he ever wanted any part of it. He didn't want to become a soldier, or an assassin, or a hunter. It was never his dream to hurt anyone. All he ever wanted was to be normal.

The choice was never his. It still wasn't. This was his path, too late to change it now. 17 years too late. He could run away- except, he couldn't even do that. He wouldn't let himself stoop to cowardice, not when people here in Britain needed him. And if he did try to run, fate would find him. No matter how far he ventured, for however long. Prophecy always wins, in the end.

In the end. What if it never ended? What if he and Voldemort were doomed to battle each other forever? Tom would undoubtedly get his immortality then.

Harry sighed, wiping his hands across his face, trying to scrape away the thoughts of Voldemort from his head. He needed to get some sleep. It was going to be an early morning, and he'd need his strength for the funeral.

Dumbledore's funeral.

How he wished the sight of Dumbledore's empty face had just been another trick from his nightmare, just like Draco's death, and Riddle's face looking up at him. Hell, he'd sooner have a wicked nightmare than the morbid reality he was living in now.

It took longer than it should have for Harry to realise that, now, he really was on his own. No more falling back on Dumbledore to pull his arse out of the fire. No more relying on the headmaster to protect him from the powers that be. He had to rely on himself now, he had to be better. If he didn't, the next person he could lose might be far closer than Dumbledore. It may only be a matter of time before he lost someone he couldn't live without.

Who would that be, he wondered. Was there any one person he valued more than anyone else? Who, if they were to die, would take all hope that Harry had left with them?

'Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine today,' Harry thought to himself, the corners of his lips curling as he realised how much like Ron he had just sounded.

Ron… Dumbledore's death hit him surprisingly hard. Ron had always seemed impervious to the world around him (most of the time anyway). He always seemed so blasé about pretty much everything. So seeing his best friend breakdown once he heard the news of the headmaster's passing was quite the shock to almost everyone. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it, whether he should have expected it or not, whether it spoke more about Ron or about him.

Hermione's reaction was as he expected - quiet, sullen shock. She had immediately thrown her arms around him, moments after finding him that evening, refusing to let go until she knew he was alright. When he finally got the chance to relay the news, she was visibly shaken, most likely realising the weight of Dumbledore's death quicker than Harry had. He told her all about the cave, of course, and about the extra vial of calming draught. Harry was keen to mention it very well saved his and Dumbledore's lives. That seemed to cheer her up if only a little.

As for the others, it was a mixed bag. Some were stoic, others were distraught, but most were merely in shock. The circumstances surrounding the headmaster's death were never directly explained; no one could be allowed to know the truth, only snippets shared around in rumours. The most anyone had managed to piece together was that Draco Malfoy had a hand in it in some way, and Snape's sudden disappearance was also connected. A few people went so far as to blame Harry for it, scorning him, assuming that he had some part of it, that he didn't do enough to stop it.

He didn't dare tell Hermione how often he agreed with them. She wouldn't ever hear the end of her trying to convince him otherwise, how it was always Dumbledore's plan to die by Snape's hand, how he had done everything he could to stop it, to save his life and Draco's soul. Every time his thoughts threaten to slip into self-hatred, there was an echo of Hermione that held him back. She was always with him in some capacity, whether physically by his side or there in spirit. That girl rarely left his head. Not that Harry wanted her to, quite the contrary. It was nice to have a face other than Voldemort, or Malfoy, or Sirius or Dumbledore in his mind's eye.

And it was a cute face, to be fair - with her large, brown eyes, her wide smile, her small, round nose and bushy hair that framed it like a lion's mane. It was little wonder why Ron used to have a crush on her. He was surprised that others hadn't expressed the same interest when he thought about it. People were always lining up for Ginny's attention, including him, and she was only marginally more beautiful than Hermione. Why didn't have boys just raring to make a move on her?

Maybe it was this boy that Hermione supposedly spent her free time with, the one that Ron had told him about. Amidst the chaos of the last couple of weeks, Harry was still clueless as to who it could be. It seemed like more and more her time was being eaten up by Harry himself, helping him, consoling him, making sure he was alright. It frustrated Harry to no end.

There was someone out there who she really liked, and yet she was forced to dedicate her every waking minute to him. He felt like a parasite, slowly syphoning away her life to keep his should from crumbling under everything, unloading the stress and heartache onto her. She should have a life beyond him, away from his problems. She should be spending time with this boy that she likes while she had the chance.

Because before long, very soon, in fact, she was going to be fighting for her life.

How on Earth was she going to handle this? Even with his and Ron's input, there was a silent understanding that they were going to rely on her and her encyclopaedia of magical knowledge to help them. That was how it had always been. Except now, it was truly life or death. That pressure, that duty… how on Earth was she going to tell her parents? What could she tell them? That was she off to fight in a war and that they might never see her again? Or would she lie, tell them that it was going to be another year of Hogwarts? How was she going to protect them in the meantime? How…

Harry couldn't help the feeling that he was ruining Hermione's life. All that she had given him, and what had he given back? Friendship? A fat lot of good that did anyone. It certainly wasn't any form of protection - he couldn't even protect his family, his mentor, his allies.

It was a wonder she had left him already. Everyone else had, for far less and for good reason, too. He wanted to shout at her, to scream at her to just leave, to run as far as she can not stop until the name 'Harry Potter' was but a distant memory. She didn't deserve to burn herself out on a dead man. Running with him would only end in pain, only Hermione refused to see it. She still thought he could be saved somehow. He wanted to believe her, give in to her optimism, but he couldn't, in the end.

Because even Hermione Granger could be wrong sometimes, especially about him. She didn't know. She could never…

Harry punched his pillow, drawing the covers over his head, forcing his eyes shut, as if to smother the memories in darkness. It wasn't long before sleep retook him, too tired to put up a fight.

* * *

He almost expected the following morning to be an oppressively overcast scene, but as if despite the day's events, the sky was empty of cloud and the sun beamed. Then again, Harry could be thankful that Dumbledore's funeral would be a day of peace. He would have wanted that.

Students were allowed to attend, what few that were left anyway. Most parents had taken their kids out early - Seamus' almost had him back on the train the day before, but he refused to go home before the funeral. The honoured guests would be seated on an island in the Black Lake, joined to the shore by a magical jetty, where Dumbledore's body would be laid to rest. Those that chose to attend would be sat towards the back, filling out the sea of chairs on the shore.

Despite having known the headmaster for several years now, Harry was still surprised to find that he was to be sat on the second row. He fully expected to be with the rest of the students, but apparently, it wasn't the case. He wondered whether it was by Dumbledore's request, the staff's acknowledgement, or whether it was the Ministry's decision, assuming that his status as the 'chosen one' warranted him special treatment.

Well, special treatment or not, Harry welcomed it solely for the fact that Ron and Hermione were also allowed to sit with him. They were accompanied by a very select few of the DA, all of the Ministry six in fact, with Luna sat beside Ron, leaving Neville and Ginny to occupy the rest of the row. Harry couldn't help but feel reassured by their company, knowing that whatever happened, he had friends close by.

As for the other guests, he recognised most of them from the Order. Those he didn't recognise were most likely old peers, ministry officials, more celebrated witches and wizards that only Hermione knew by name. The Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, stood in the sidelines, flanked by suits; Cornelius Fudge, with his lime-green bowler hat; Rita Skeeter with her magic quill; he even spied Delores Umbridge, tucked away in the back. Just the sight of her and her porcelain smile made Harry's blood boil. All the people who couldn't be here, and _she_ made it. And she likely wasn't the only one. Harry could only guess how many people attending actual knew Albus Dumbledore. How many of them actually could claim to mourn his passing. Even now he could see a crowd of slimy vultures eyeing the more prestigious members of the party, including him, just waiting for their chance to network with the esteemed partners of the late great headmaster.

It was lucky that he had Hermione. Having his best friend beside him, her soft but firm grip on his arm, kept him grounded throughout the procession. Every time he felt it all becoming too much, he would reach over and find her hand rest against his sleeve. It meant the world to feel her fingers discreetly locking with his and squeeze in reassurance. A few strands of her bushy hair tickle his neck, her legs pressed against his, they were practically attached to the hip. But Harry was grateful for the contact. That was something real, at least.

Harry wondered what Hermione thinking about, in that brain that never seemed to slow down, even for a moment. It was a wonder she could sleep with a mind like that. He hoped to God that she wasn't imagining his funeral; he pleaded that she wasn't doing that to herself. She had been through enough already for his sake. Maybe that explained why she was holding onto him like he would fade away at any moment. He made sure to rub his thumb against her hand, softly reminding her that he was there, that he was still alive, still right there next to her and well. A small comfort, but he knew she needed right now.

Ten o'clock signalled the start of the ceremony, played to a short overture as everyone took their seats. A deathly quiet, save for the birds and the gentle lashing of the waters, fell over the company. In the aisle between the seats, Harry saw Hagrid marching solemnly towards the front, his face gleaming with tears, carrying what could only be Dumbledore's body, wrapped in purple velvet spangled with golden stars. Harry had to repress a melancholy smile at the sight of the garish garment - even in death, the man would never tolerate subtlety.

At the end of the aisle lay a small, white, marble altar, gleaming like heaven in the bright sunlight. Hagrid gently placed the body on top of the shrine and retreated back down the aisle. Harry tried sending him a reassuring glance as he went, but his eyes were so swollen with tears that it was a wonder that he could see where he was going.

From the surface of the lake, a chorus of merpeople began singing in a strange language he did not understand, their pallid faces rippling, their purplish hair flowing all around them. The music made the hair on Harry's neck stand up, and yet it was not unpleasant. It spoke very clearly of loss and of despair. As he looked down into the wild faces of the singers, he had the feeling that they, at least, were sorry for Dumbledore's passing.

That was when he heard sniffling from beside him. Tears were falling like raindrops into Hermione's lap as all composure broke. Harry couldn't blame her. If it weren't for the fact that he was sitting in the sights dozens of strangers, he would likely have broken down too. He carefully readjusted himself, placing an arm around her shoulders in support, and he felt her bury herself into his shoulder.

The merpeople weren't the only unexpected visitors. As Harry surveyed the scene, across the surface of the lake, he spotted centaurs at the edges of the forest, watching silently. He wondered if Firenze was amongst, thinking back to his first time in the forest, how this stranger had chosen to intervene, to save his life even if it meant estrangement from his kin. Why did they not want him to help, Harry wondered. Was it because they too knew that he was bound to a terrible fate, either way? The centaurs could read the stars, Harry remembered, it was their way of divining the fates. If he asked, what would they say about his future? Could they even see that far? Did they know this was going to happen? Did they care?

Then several people screamed, and he jumped. Harry whirled around in time to see bright, white flames had erupted around Dumbledore's body and the table upon which it lay: higher and higher they rose, obscuring the body. White smoke spiralled into the air and made strange shapes: Harry thought, for one heart-stopping moment, that he saw a phoenix fly joyfully into the blue, but next second the fire had vanished. In its place was a white marble tomb, encasing Dumbledore's body and the table on which he had rested.

There were a few more cries of shock as a shower of arrows soared through the air, but they fell far short of the crowd. It was, Harry knew, the centaurs' tribute: he saw them turn tail and disappear back into the cool trees. Likewise, the merpeople sank slowly back into the green water and were lost from view.

The white tomb sat still against the horizon, and the funeral was over.

As the guests began to depart, each made their way up the aisle to the tomb. One by one, witches and wizards of all sort spoke their peace to the late Albus Dumbledore, and Harry made sure to do the same, once his turn came. He chose not to say any words. Instead, Harry decided to lay a single hand on the marble and promised to do his best. He hoped, wherever Dumbledore was, he heard it. Hermione and Ron too chose to pay their respects, nothing too extravagant, just a few words in remembrance for their mentor. They were probably as eager as he was to get it over with just so they could get away from the crowd.

As Harry escorted Hermione back to the shore, passing the long line of guests and students waiting for their turn, he saw Ginny glancing at him expectantly from the corner of her eye. She probably wanted a few words with him alone, but today of all days, that was the last thing Harry wanted. There was far too much to think about without adding Ginny to the list, and though the day was still relatively young, Harry felt emotionally drained.

He couldn't help but regret how he had treated the girl the last time he spoke to her. She had poured her heart out to him, and his only response was to run away. Ever since then, she had tried repeatedly to talk to him, but every time he had avoided her. Harry tried to argue that he was protecting her by staying away, but he knew that was a lie. The only person he was protecting was himself, running away from the shame treating on his friends, someone he thought he loved, like a leper.

What were they now? They were hardly boyfriend and girlfriend, as he assumed they could be for the longest time. Like how a part of him still wanted to be. Despite knowing it could never happen - not after what she said to him - but it was still there, deep down. He had harboured a crush on Ginny for a while, one that he couldn't throw away at the drop of a hat just because he should. He liked Ginny, she was fun and fiery and full of life. He wanted to be around her, he wanted her as a part of his life. Maybe they could be like brother and sister instead, not that he would ever know what that was like. He had never had any siblings, the closest he had was probably Ron. And Ginny was Ron's sister…

Harry decided not to think too hard about what that said about him.

Eventually, the crowd began to die down, as the guests were escorted out of the Hogwarts grounds, and the students back to the castle. A handful of people had the nerve to speak to Harry directly, either to give their condolences or just lick his boots. It should have been no surprise that Rufus Scrimgeour made himself known, asking - or instead interrogating- him about where he was with Dumbledore the night he died. Of course, Harry refused to say anything that might have even remotely pointed to the word 'Horcrux'. Scrimgeour then had the gall to ask if Harry had reconsidered his offer for publically supporting the Ministry, which would basically amount to singing their praises for the sake of it. Harry told him to sod off - in a diplomatic fashion, of course, though he was sure the Minister could read between the lines, judging by how he stormed away.

The company had almost dispersed now, the stragglers giving the monumental figure of Grawp a wide berth as he cuddled Hagrid, whose howls of grief were still echoing across the water. Harry reminded himself to visit the gamekeeper that evening, realising that he had been to see him since Aragog's funeral. He should've been a better friend to him, the man who rescued him the muggle world all those years ago. Hagrid was one of the few people Harry trusted absolutely. He was like an uncle he never had, maybe even a father. It broke Harry's heart that fact that he couldn't tell Hagrid about the Horcruxes, or that he was going to die. He would know exactly what to say to make him feel better.

It was coming up to midday when the last of the guests had departed, leaving Harry, Ron and Hermione, and a few other students, alone on the lawn looking out on the island. There was a long silence between them that only Hermione dared to break.

"Are you alright?" she asked. Harry turned to her, coming face to face with her concerned features once again. He tried to smile but gave up once he realised he couldn't get his lips to turn the right way.

"…No," Harry eventually replied. "I just… I didn't want this to happen. I never wanted this. Any of this."

A pair of arms reached around his shoulder, pulling him into a tight hug, and Harry realised just how much he had missed Hermione's hugs.

"I know," she whispered softly. "But he didn't die for nothing. We've still got the Order, and his notes, and the Shrieking Shack. We're ready for this. We're going to win, Harry."

"Don't you go anywhere," he whispered back, far more sincerely than he intended. Hermione only smiled.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Hermione's right," he heard Ron say, "as always. We'll be there, Harry. We're with you whatever happens. Although, I'm almost dreading having you two at the Burrow this summer."

"Why?"

"Bill and Fleur's wedding, remember? It's gonna absolute mayhem, and Mum's gonna have us working day and night getting it ready."

Harry looked at him, startled; the idea that anything as ordinary as a wedding could still exist seemed incredible and yet wonderful.

"Yeah, but we shouldn't miss it," he said finally.

That was when Harry spotted something. A man was standing on the shore of the lake, one that Harry certainly didn't recognise from the funeral. He didn't look like a wizard, in fact, he dressed in clothes that screamed 'muggle', and he wasn't moving, just standing and staring, as if he were waiting for something.

For some reason - whether it was just the image of someone alone at a funeral that resonated with the young man or just some mild curiosity - Harry felt compelled to go to him. No one should have to mourn alone. Harry knew that pain all too well.

He excused himself from Hermione's grasp and began walking over to the stranger. He walked carefully, not wanting to disturb the quiet contemplation. Harry was about to introduce himself when the stranger spoke.

"Good afternoon, young man."

Harry was almost taken aback, wondering how on Earth he could have known he was coming. He didn't look like a wizard, dressed in a raven overcoat and black trousers and suit. Then again, he had known Mad-Eye-Moody long enough to know that some people didn't need magic to be hyper-aware of their surroundings, although it certainly helped. Shaking it off, Harry returned the greeting.

"Good afternoon, sir."

The teenager took the last few steps, joining the old man in standing by the shore. Harry subtly studied the man beside him. He was old, probably in his eighties, with silver hair and a face that drooped in a way that reminded Harry of a Bassett Hound. Despite the walking cane in between his hands, he stood taller than even Harry, barely moving against the breeze. His eyes were staring out onto the island, toward's Dumbledore's grave, his face set in a stoic but despondent expression.

"Did you know him?" Harry eventually asked. The old man sighed.

"Yes," he replied thickly, "Yes, I did."

"Were you two friends?"

The old man merely glanced at him, a thin smile crinkling his lips. His eyes twinkled in a way that instantly reminded Harry of the late headmaster.

"He told me a lot about you, Mr Potter, but I suspect he told you very little of me."

He reached out his hand, which Harry immediately took. His grip was surprisingly firm, shaking his hand vigorously.

"My name is Gareth Dalton," the man introduced, his hand returning to his cane. "I've known Albus for many years."

"You were close then?"

"I should hope so," Mr Dalton grinned, "considering he was my partner."

It took all of Harry's restraint to not let his mouth gape open, and his eyes widen in shock. It must not have worked, because the old man - Mr Dalton - guffawed loudly.

"I can see how he got the taste for it now. What with his flair for the dramatic. That should have been your first clue."

First clue? Was he supposed to be judging that sort of thing? Was it really that obvious?

Even amongst wizards, Dumbledore stood out with his flamboyant pink robes and endless energy. Harry always took it as just some of the old sorcerer's developed eccentricities. A side effect of being unparalleled in his field, growing past the point of caring what others thought. He didn't know why the thought of Dumbledore having a partner was so odd - in hindsight, it would have hardly been the weirdest thing about the old man. Still, there was a naive, childish side to him that always assumed Dumbledore just lived at the school, that his role as headmaster was just his whole life.

Unable to think of any sort of dignified response, Harry wisely chose to shut his mouth and nod.

"Don't worry, Mr Potter," Mr Dalton eventually said, deciding to take pity on the boy, "you weren't to know."

"I didn't even think he was married," Harry marvelled, staring out at the lake.

"Married, no." Mr Dalton shook his head, his face souring. The grip on his cane tightened and readjusted as if he were attempting to strangle it. "I don't need to tell you that wizards aren't exactly, shall we say, enamoured by people who are different."

Harry couldn't help but think back to Hermione, having to hear slur after slur against her, consistent judgement and derivation from people who couldn't fathom the brilliance of someone of her birth. Or the humiliation that Ron had to put up with, just for being less of pocket. Harry wondered after he had put Riddle in the dirt, whether the Wizarding world would actually learn from the oncoming war. Or whether they would just carry on as they always did, allowing their ignorance to blindly breed another would-be dark lord.

"We debated whether or not to go public," Mr Dalton continued, "but we never did, evidently. My choice. I didn't want to be his weakness - what with his status and the enemies that came with it - though, he never saw it that way. Can't say it didn't suit me, though. I was very used to keeping secrets already. What was one more, eh?"

"Secrets?"

He saw Mr Dalton grin once again.

"You really do ask the right questions, don't you?"

"It's more of a recent habit," Harry shrugged.

Mr Dalton cleared his throat, settling in for a long tale, and Harry, realising this might take a while, adjusted to a more comfortable stance.

"Before I met Albus," the elderly gentleman began, "I served under the Royal Airforce, during the Second World War. Confidentiality was second nature to us, back then, as it should have it been to most people. We were all on the lookout for anything suspicious. All for Mr Churchill, for Queen and Country, you see. Couldn't let any German spies break through the ranks. Well, you know very well keeping magic hushed up is a task in itself, but trying to do it during a war? With everyone and their grandmother on the lookout? It was only inevitable that some muggles slipped through the cracks. I was one of them.

"Grindelwald was desperate to destabilise the British Air force, you see; he saw it as the greatest threat to his forces. I was working at my post one day when I managed to intercept a fight in my hanger. Made quick work of them."

"You killed wizards?" Harry gasped, to which Mister Dalton eyed him mischievously. Something between a twinkle and a glint fell across his pair of blue irises.

"When you have an aim as good as mine," he explained, "it's easy work. Albus just happened to be one of the wizards fighting to protect the base. Afterwards, we got talking, and he managed to recruit me to the cause."

"I didn't think they'd let muggles join in on that sort of thing."

"Nowadays, definitely not, but back then, they were desperate for anyone who could put up a fight. Besides, my military connections proved quite useful in the end, but maybe that's a tale for another day.

"After it was all over, we few muggles had done enough for the right side that we were quietly classified under 'squibs' and told to keep our heads down."

"Doesn't sound like much of a reward," Harry said.

"We certainly weren't granted any honours," Mr Dalton bristled, "but I suppose we were just glad that we got to keep our memories. Eventually, we were even allowed into the Wizarding world. It's how I was able to come here today."

"I'm glad you could be here, for his sake. He would have wanted you here… if you really are who you say you are."

"Oh, you want proof, do you?" Mr Dalton chuckled, to which Harry shrugged.

"You can't blame me for being cautious."

"No, I suppose not, what with a murderer on your tail. I could belong to anyone. You'd be a fool to trust me outright, however-" He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a blackened lump perched in the palm of his hand, "-perhaps you'd be a greater fool to not trust him."

Harry looked closer at the pile of charred, dirty feathers, nothing for the first time a pair of beady eyes blinking up at him. His eyes followed its body downwards, to its tiny wings, tipped with specs of scarlet and gold, and he gasped.

"Is that-?"

Mr Dalton smiled and Fawkes the phoenix chirped happily as if saying 'hello' to a familiar face.

"I've known this one for as long as I've known Albus," he explained, gazing down fondly at the chick in his palm. "He's quite the personality. Always brought Albus to me in times of crisis. He'll be perfectly alright with me for now, Mr Potter. Let the rest of them believe he's gone off to the next great adventure."

Harry carefully stroked Fawkes' tiny head, before Mr Dalton returned him to his pocket.

"Whilst we're on the subject of Albus' effects," Mr Dalton continued, "where's his wand?"

Harry gestured towards the island, where the white tomb still stood, gleaming in the midday sun.

"With him."

Mr Dalton glanced at the teenager by his side, fixing him with a strange look.

"He told me that it was your's."

"Doesn't matter," Harry shrugged. "I don't want it."

"Hmm, quite right," Mr Dalton nodded dutifully, deciding that was the correct answer. "Let it rest, I say. He was an astute man, and I admired him greatly, but the Hallows were always Albus' one failing. Don't believe everything he told you, they have been his obsession ever since he was a young man, and believe me that's been a very long time indeed."

"The Hallows?" Harry asked, suddenly bewildered. "What are those?"

Mr Dalton looks at him for a few seconds, before he rolled his eyes and sighed irritably. Harry frowned what he had done wrong before he heard the old man mumbling to himself.

"Useless, that man. Utterly useless."

"Are they important?" Harry asked, causing the elderly gentleman to scoff.

"They might very well be." Mr Dalton straightened up. "Albus always did want to see them buried, but I never did think it was his tale to close."

"Is his wand one of them?"

"He was certainly convinced of it. As was Grindelwald. He bargained his empire on that wand. You can guess how that turned out."

"Grindelwald believed in the Hallows as well?"

"Oh, he was more than a believer," Mr Dalton growled. "Went so far as to take their symbol as his own. You'd be hard-pressed to ask about the Hallows without Grindelwald's name eventually showing up. He thought they were the key to absolute power."

Harry's eyes widened as another thought popped into his head.

"Do you think Voldemort might try and find them too?" he asked.

"He wouldn't be the first," Mr Dalton murmured, "he certainly wouldn't be the last. The history of the Hallows is one steeped in blood. For every bit of good they've caused, they dwell in a dozen tragedies. Greater men than Albus have lost themselves to the search, Mr Potter." Mr Dalton gave him a look from the corner of his eye, and a sudden chill gripped Harry's body. It was safe to say Harry no longer harboured any doubt that this man had taken a life. "So, take my advice and don't go looking for them. If it is truly to be, they will find you."

Harry quickly nodded, desperate not to get on the wrong side of his temper.

"Yes, sir."

In the blink of an eye, the elderly man's ominous demeanour was gone, and the lifelong companion of Albus Dumbledore was back. He smiled enigmatically.

"He spoke very highly of you, Mr Potter. You may, in fact, have been his favourite student." He reached into his jacket pocket and offered Harry a black card between his fingers. "Should you ever need any help of the muggle variety, don't be afraid to call."

Harry took it, reading 'Mr Gareth Dalton' and a phone number. He was about to ask what kind of business he was in when he noticed the elderly gentleman looking out towards the island, in quiet contemplation. Deciding not to disturb the scene, Harry slipped the card safely in his back pocket and joined him in gazing at the tomb.

"I just wish I could have done more," Harry eventually admitted.

"We loved him," Mr Dalton replied, his voice croaking at the seams. "That's all we could do."

Despite the years having slowly stripped it from him, Harry could still see the essence of a soldier within the old man. An air of dignity worn thin over time, but still pervasive. It reminded Harry of an ageing lion, its mane more grey than gold, but still majestic in its own way.

"I'm sorry," was all the teen could say.

"It's alright," Mr Dalton replied robotically. "I've had a year to come to terms with this. Yet, here I am. Still not quite…"

"Would you like to be alone?" Harry asked in of more prescient moments. Mr Dalton nodded.

"Yes, I think I would." He turned to Harry and offered him once final shake of the hand, before gently batting him away with his cane. "Now, off with you. Go to your girl. She's been watching us like a hawk ever since you came to talk to me."

_My girl?_

Harry turned around, expecting to see Ginny in the distance, her distinctive shade of red hair, ready to explain how they weren't really boyfriend and girlfriend - except his eyes met Hermione's face instead.

Even amongst the small crowd of students, he found her as if she were the only one. She was indeed staring at him, a peculiar expression on her face. She looked perfectly at peace, proud and awed and happy, but somehow morose at the same time. It was only there for a quick second before she quickly glanced away and continued talking to Professor McGonagall, one of the few remaining guests. However, even that tiny exchange was enough to swell his heart through his ribcage.

It felt nothing like one of Ginny's pervasive stares - that awkward, overbearing presence the made him feel uncomfortable in his own body. Hermione's gaze felt warm and inviting, like sunlight. He was always happy to see it, whenever he was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of it, and it always made him stand just a little bit taller, made him feel like he was doing something right only by existing.

Hermione trusted him, understood him, completely. And she knew him - the real him - better than anyone. Compared to Ron… Ron was his best friend, and Harry loved him, but he didn't _need _Ron, not in the way that he needed Hermione. The possibility of Ron being buried under the tomb saddened him, but it didn't make him _physically ill _like it did to imagine Hermione's cold, lifeless body in Dumbledore's place. It didn't grip Harry's stomach in terror and rip his heart in two and sour his every waking moment, because he'd been without Ron before. Harry had gone weeks without Ron in his life, acting like a stranger, and he had managed it because he had Hermione by his side. Just as she had been since the moment he met her.

Harry couldn't imagine his life without Hermione. It simply didn't compute.

Because he loved her.

And all of a sudden it was like seeing his favourite photograph in colour for the first time. Like remembering the name of a song stuck in his head. Like realising why he had clung to the scent of lavender in his darkest moments to carry him through.

_I love Hermione. My Hermione. My girl…_

Harry refused to believe it. Not because he wouldn't want Hermione - no, he realised, he wanted her more than anything in the world. But he… he didn't deserve her. He was a broken toy. She was the whole world. She needed someone who could give her everything, someone who at least had a life to live. Harry knew he didn't have that. All he could hope for was a good death.

He couldn't tell her, not now. Telling her, knowing that he only had so much time left, would only be cruelty. Having something with her, loving her, only to have to say goodbye, would break her. He knew that pain of having to let go of something he loved, and any future he might have shared with them. To have that hope torn away.

Harry could the end of that road in the man beside him. Even having all those years with Dumbledore, all that time to live and love each other, it still wasn't enough. No amount of time could temper that kind of loss.

He and Hermione wouldn't have years. Every day that he was alive was another day Riddle was allowed to torment all that was good in the world. His death was coming sooner rather than later. That was a sacrifice he had to make, a burden he would carry with him. Letting her in, tying her to a dead man… He couldn't do that to Hermione. Not her.

How could hurt her that deeply and claim to love her?

So, he would let it die with him. He loved Hermione, he knew that now more than ever, but she didn't love him back. At least, not in the same way. At least that was what he had to believe. How could she ever truly love him, in that way? Him, the one without a future. She didn't know what his home life had done to him, the humiliation he was forced to endure. All she saw was the person he was trying to be, not the wretched thing that crawled out of the cupboard and onto the Hogwarts Express. Harry could never ask her to love that because he struggled to either.

Noticing that he had actually yet to move, Harry momentarily shook himself out of his crisis. Hermione had gone to rejoin Ron, and the two looked eager to head up back to the castle. And so Harry began the slow walk back, returning up to the castle for a spot of lunch. His last day at Hogwarts as a free student.

He left Mr Dalton to mourn in peace, and all the while pretended not to notice the tears trailing down his time-weathered face.


End file.
